Stormclaw
by Charrlizard
Summary: The tale of one druid's life, over the span of ten thousand years. One of the first character backstories I actually typed up, that came out more as an actual story than a summary. I figured I might as well edit it, finish it, and put it up. Enjoy.
1. Stormclaw

**Stormclaw**

* * *

 **The City of Eldarath – West of Zin'Azshari and Suramar**

* * *

A soft mewling sound echoed through the woods again. Whatever creature made it was weak, probably wounded or tired. Luckily for it, one who could hear its cries for help was nearby, strolling through the woods that surrounded the elven city of Eldarath on all sides, and only added to its beauty. The humanoid who heard the cries for help was a Kaldorei, around the age of five.

His skin was a pale light blue, like the rest of his Highborne caste, and his frame was tall, though not yet filled out with the muscles of adulthood. He was like every other child his age, though there were a few key differences that set him apart, and kept him all but isolated. His hair was a long mane of dark green, and for some reason not even his family could understand, he preferred to walk around without any kind of covering for his upper torso, preferring instead to wear kilts or leather pants, when he went wandering into the forests.

Normally, the Highborne of the city would have sneered at him and his family for producing a 'wild child', but most held their tongues when they saw the amber eyes. A superstitious people, the Kaldorei treated such children with mixed reactions, but all agreed that those who bore eyes of amber were destined for greatness.

* * *

The child, Laronar, had never felt particularly great, only ostracized from being normal by something he had no control over. At first the hushed whispers wherever he went bothered him, but he soon learned to ignore them, and over time, began to ignore other parts of the culture that surrounded him. Being an inherently kind person, the haughty superiority his fellow Highborne claimed over others did little more than confuse him. He didn't find lineage a good reason to treat others like dirt. They were still elves, and he had been taught that elves as a whole were superior to the mysterious 'other races' that shared the world with them. Being five, he hadn't yet had a reason to doubt his parent's knowledge in that regard. This difference in morals is what led him to brazenly stroll through the city without a shirt, to walk in the woods on that particular day, and it is what led him to a creature that would become a lifelong friend.

He had no particular desire to assimilate into his culture, as the older he grew, the more he found he disliked it. There was one part of it, however, that had fascinated his young mind since he was two. Nightsabers. They were fierce, proud, loyal, and cool in ways the five-year-old couldn't even begin to describe. He'd always been drawn to them, and once more he was drawn to the forests as the sounds echoing in the woods could only be those of a Nightsaber kit. He'd played with enough to recognize most of their sounds, but he'd never heard one in pain before.

* * *

As he followed the sounds of distress, which grew louder as he ran deeper into the forest then he had ever dared to before, he eventually came upon a large hollow log. The sounds of pain stopped abruptly as the not so nimble child crashed through the brush with the grace of a rampaging Tauren.

It took him a minute to notice the glowing pair of narrowed eyes hiding within the darkness of the log, but when he did, he knelt down next to it, and offered a hand. A sharply clawed paw swiped at his hand, as the child suspected it would, and he pulled it back quickly, avoiding being cut before deciding that the only course of action now was to wait.

The creature inside the log was indeed a Nightsaber. His people had tamed the proud, massive cats long ago, and Laronar had wanted one as a pet ever since his father had told him the story of how their family had gotten their surname: Stormclaw. While he was far too young to remember it all, he did focus on the parts that included the great Stormsaber one of his ancestors had rode upon as he'd wielded the power of the storms, and used it against Zandalari, Dwarves, Tauren, and other monsters.

* * *

Stormsabers were exceedingly rare, even back in the times of his ancestor, and taming one was considered as impressive as taming a wild Frostsaber, for they were every bit as, if not more, fearsome. The difference in breeds mainly came from the fact that male Stormsabers tended to be dominant, while the other breeds, not unlike the elves, were matriarchal. The male-dominant breed did not do well against ancient, powerful females, and that was what had primarily led to their decline in number. The young elf had no illusions about finding a Stormsaber of his own, since they had become a mount for only the most skilled riders in Zin Azshari, their racial capital, but he continued to hope.

He sat by the log for what seemed, to a child, like hours. His eyes never left the saber cat's, and eventually, he started talking to it. He didn't know why, but he was bored, hungry, and only wanted to help an injured creature as he had so often before, much to his parent's disdain. However, Laronar suspected that they wouldn't stop him from keeping a Nightsaber as a companion.

The great cats were expensive to buy, though feeding them was easy enough, if you lived in a city. The Kaldorei rangers had no shortage of meat to sell. Finally, the small Nightsaber crawled out of the log, eyeing the elf warily. The great cats were smarter than most gave them credit for, something Laronar had begun to realize since it had stopped hissing at him. The elf wasn't a threat to it, that much was obvious, and they were young, hungry, and alone in the dark woods. Not that the lack of light was an issue for either of them.

* * *

The first light of dawn was beginning to shine through the clouds, signaling just how early it was, but the young elf didn't care. The purplish light of the barely risen sun revealed what subspecies the young sabercat was, and Laronar couldn't quite recognize it. It was only at that moment, as he reached out again to pet the creature, that he had no idea what Stormsabers actually looked like. This kit's fur was a deep blue, like the early night sky, and had spots all over it. The blue extended down its legs and under its paws, while the upper sides of its paws were entirely white, along with its belly.

Slowly, the elf placed a hand on its head, and began petting. "See? I'm not going to hurt you…" he whispered. The young cat, despite his reluctance, found himself purring in response. The elven fingers were dextrous, and the small child had found a spot behind his ear that caused his entire body to rumble. That same purr echoed around the two, rolling through the woods in approval, but Laronar was too caught up with his new best friend to notice.

As Laronar kept up his petting, his eyes caught sight of the creature's injury, on its back left leg. It looked like a gash, and the fur around it was deep purple. Realizing what made purple when mixed with blue fur, the young elf carefully picked up the sabercat, and began walking back towards his home.

"First, we get you home." He whispered, "Then someday, you'll carry me. On your back, though." He went on, recounting to the small cat about how they would ride into battle together against great foes, and strike fear into the hearts of anyone who would ever dare question their power combined.

* * *

Once the two finally reached the outskirts of the city, where even the nature lovers among their people stopped, they were found by a Moonguard patrol, which had been tasked with finding the young elf. When the child of a Highborne family went missing, the guards were expected to drop everything to find them.

The guards of this section of Eldarath knew Laronar well, for he often ventured beyond the city, avoiding the guards, and had a tendency to stay out later and later. This was the longest he'd been gone so far, but the two guards realized why once they found him. They tried to take the Nightsaber in his arms from him, but stopped as it hissed. It was young, but it already had a formidable pair of sharp fangs. All they lacked was the legendary length that marked cats of his species.

The two guards decided against separating the pair, for it was common knowledge that Nightsabers bonded most strongly with whoever took care of them first. That was also why there were so few kept as pets, and used only as mounts. Those who knew how to properly raise the cubs did not share their knowledge easily, though once they were trained, they could be bonded to anyone, given enough time.

As the pair returned home, Laronar and his new pet were greeted by knowing smiles from his mother and sister, a sigh from his father, and a sneer from his eldest brother that sent a chill down the young Night Elf's spine.

* * *

His brother was, by far, the one who embraced their Highborne status the most, his parents having given up on retaining some semblance of respectability amongst their cast long ago, after it was clear that Laronar was 'special'. Vehlar alone maintained the air of Highborne superiority, but Laronar continuously undermined his efforts with his wild attitude and strong hatred of shirts. The two brothers did not like each other whatsoever, and this cat was yet another wedge that would no doubt drive them apart.

Compared to the rest of his family, who were fully clothed, and not covered in dirt and scratches, Laronar stuck out even more. His father and mother both had hair that was not dissimilar in color from his new pet's fur. Only Alaria, his sister, took after them. Both he and his brother Vehlar had dark green hair, but it was obvious Vehlar cared more about his appearance than his little brother.

In a society that prized aesthetics, he was, in his mind, the only Stormclaw who acted like a Highborne should. He had spent most of his childhood trying to restore the family's respectability in the eyes of the elite, and since he had a knack for sorcery, it had been going well…until his little brother was born when Vehlar was fifteen. At first, people assumed the amber eyes were a sign that their family was indeed still respectable, but as the years had passed, the middle child had become the butt end of numerous jokes, many of which were concocted by Vehlar himself.

He also had, on multiple occasions, tricked his younger sibling with cruel pranks. Since their parents were busy training their daughter, who was a year younger than Laronar, to be a priestess, this brotherly abuse was often overlooked, or ignored. Like a true Highborne, Vehlar used the influence and prestige he was bringing to the family name to get away with almost anything. It was through him that his younger brother slowly learned to hate the aristocracy, despite technically being a part of it. And as his eldest brother continued on and on about how taking in a 'half-breed stray' would tarnish their image further, Laronar finally decided he would never be like his brother. Not if he had any say about it.

* * *

As Laronar explained how he had found the young Nightsaber, Vehlar interrupted with an exasperated sigh. It was, in his defense, no different a story than any of the others his brother had told when he brought home injured squirrels or rabbits. Instead of letting nature weed out the weak members of a species, he brought them home, fed them, grew attached, and then ultimately became sad when they were 'taken to the woods'. More than a few of the critters had been taken by Vehlar, primarily for target practice.

"Excellent." He sneered, sarcastic contempt in his tone, "So you're keeping him? Maybe you can be a Saber Handler when you drop out of the Academy. Perhaps if you spent as much time casting spells as you did coddling wild animals, you wouldn't be so incredibly bad at using magic." Vehlar left the room after that, and though his childish enthusiasm was dampened, that didn't keep Laronar from ensuring his new friend had a place to stay. He'd never much cared for the magic Vehlar used, as he'd often used innocent animals to demonstrate his prowess, and nobody except Laronar seemed to find that utterly, morally, wrong. It was as if only he cared that the poor creatures suffered under such spells. Their cries often made him nauseous.

Once the issue of housing was settled, his sister managed to heal the cut on the animal's flank, while his parents found a book that catalogued the different breeds of Nightsabers. It was clear that this one wasn't ordinary, due to the unusual color and lack of stripes. It didn't take them long to figure out that it was, in fact, a Stormsaber kit, and that fact meant that they wouldn't be able to keep him in their house forever. Stormsabers were known to be big, especially the males, unlike other breeds of Nightsaber, where the females were larger. Nobody quite knew how they had gotten their name, but it seemed to fit, for those who rode them claimed that their roar had the power to shake the heavens. That remained to be seen.


	2. Rejecting the Well

**Rejecting the Well**

* * *

Several seemingly short years passed, and eventually Laronar's pet, which he had cleverly named Storm, had to go and live with the other Nightsabers of his kind in the stables. The handler was a kind person though, and she offered to feed and house the young sabercat, provided she could use his lineage to improve her other mounts.

While Laronar had no idea what that meant, or entailed, his parents agreed. He went to the stables every day, learning how to care for not just his pet, but all the other Nightsabers as well. It was clear to anyone that the boy had an affinity with the animals, and though his eyes suggested a great destiny, a Saber Handler was still a respectable part of their society. Even the bigger, meaner mounts softened at his presence, and neither of the handlers who worked the stables could quite understand why. The persistent immature noble gave them one less chore to do though, so they let him stay, when it became clear the cats treated him like one of the pack.

It seemed as though he would actually become a handler himself, in time, as his lack of sorcerous skill was obvious. He could use magic, and cast a spell as well as any other his age, but he never liked doing it. The spells the mages used brought only destruction, and the ones that didn't were only taught after the basics had been mastered. The Priestesses of the Moon had much more interesting spells, but they were a Sisterhood, and his request to join and learn had been softly, but stoically denied. At first, he'd been skeptical that his sister could hear the Goddess, and then, she'd started glowing with the light of the moon, a sign of her potential. Naturally, their parents were around to see this, and shortly after, her priestess training began.

Given that their mother was also a Moon Priestess, her age had been overlooked. Ignoring obvious talent given by their patron would be a foolish move indeed. Alaria spent much of her time at Eldarath's temple after that, going so far as to actually lodge there, with other novitiates. Laronar, for his part, was stuck at the Academy. He hated every second of it, though that was more due to the fact that it was often Vehlar who was in charge of teaching him. The cruel elder brother did not care that he regularly embarrassed his younger sibling in front of his peers, and whatever hope Laronar had of making friends vanished. Though they were young, the other children knew to avoid the lightning rod for their instructor's anger.

* * *

As he grew older, Laronar's 'special eyes' began to take in more and more of just how badly the Highborne treated 'lesser Kaldorei'. Where his parents, and even his sister, saw the so called 'huddled masses', he saw elves. Ordinary, regular Kaldorei just trying to live their extraordinarily long lives the best they could in a society that spat on them because of the circumstance of their birth. They had entrusted the Highborne with their safety, and yet, all he saw his fellow 'elite' do was abuse their power, and authority. The whole thing baffled the young elf.

His lack of respect for magic made many of his instructors sigh with disdain, though when it came time to grade the student's levels of skill, he managed to pass. Had he applied himself, he could have easily matched his brother, despite the age gap. That's what the Headmaster had told him at least. But when the young Kaldorei had explained why he found sorcery so distasteful, so…wrong, all he received was a strange look, one he was, by now, very used to seeing on the faces of adults.

It had happened slowly, but more and more, he began to feel out of place in their society, as if some part of him wanted to be something else. He just had no idea what he was supposed to be. He wasn't good with a bow, though he had fair skill with a dagger, his parents had insisted that if he was going to use bladed weapons, he was going to use proper ones, not ones suited for skulking in the shadows. Despite their best efforts, he did manage to learn to pass unseen in the night, and was rather good at it. Before long, he could walk as quietly as Storm, and the two often snuck out of the city.

* * *

Laronar was not the only one of his family to advance in the passing years. Alaria had eventually been fully accepted into the Sisterhood, and unlike her mother, chose to live at the temple full time, claiming it was her duty. Vehlar, for his part, had advanced in rank. Though it wasn't due to his skill, he often told anyone who would listen that he had been due a promotion anyways.

Many of Eldarath's Highborne magi had been called away to Zin Azshari to work on some new mysterious project their beloved queen, Azshara, was creating. Nobody suspected anything, for the sorcerers of Zin Azshari had often called on the skilled magi from around their empire when such projects were underway.

Azshara had never led them astray, and had ruled their race for uncounted centuries. Through her wisdom, and the power of their beloved Moon Goddess, the Kaldorei had carved an empire from the wild lands of Kalimdor. With magic and faith, they ruled supreme. Laronar however, felt anything but superior. Long years of forcibly learning spells at the hand of his brother had turned him increasingly bitter towards elven magic. It was only his visits to the stables that kept the young Kaldorei from being utterly miserable.

The only benefit he gained from magic was the use of several basic, minor spells or 'cantrips' as his superiors called them. He found Mage Hand and Prestidigitation rather useful, but his mind had been thoroughly blown, when he'd found, in a rather unused tome within Eldarath's Academy, a spell that actually allowed one to speak with animals. In those days, mages still used spellbooks to record their knowledge, and Laronar was no different, though he had never bothered to inscribe anything more useful than a fireball, and the aforementioned cantrips into his own. When his professors found what he was copying down, they had sighed, but had allowed it anyways, and had even led him to another useful, but low level spell, one that allowed the user to comprehend foreign languages with naught but glyph, and a pinch of salt and soot.

* * *

Once Laronar had reached the age of ten, things started to change. He didn't know how, but he could feel it in the air itself, something was wrong. He wasn't the only one who felt it, either. The Nightsabers of the realm had become uneasy as the skies darkened, and public unrest began to rise as the Well of Eternity began to churn with enormous waves, or so the rumors said.

Nobody in Eldarath had actually seen the Well's turmoil. Azshara and her Highborne had, to the knowledge of those in Eldarath at least, closed themselves off from the public. Those Highborne who were left outside Zin Azshari, like Vehlar, were more than a little insulted by the exclusion. Despite this, life continued on, even as tempers frayed.

The people, hearing no word from their Queen, looked to Elune for guidance. The priestesses worked nightly to calm the people's fears, claiming that their Queen had never led them astray and would not do so now. To Laronar, he still lacked the perspective to understand why people were so worried, but he did know that if the Well was acting violently, it was because the Highborne were drawing massive amounts of magic from it.

Whatever they planned to do with such power would be grand indeed, though in his mind, it would just be another story for him to learn about later. Truly, nobody that far west of the capital worried about what the Highborne would do with such magical might. Azshara would keep them in line, as she had since the dawn of their mighty empire. Nobody could match the Queen, after all. Not if they drew from the Well for a hundred years.

* * *

Life continued on somewhat normally for a few weeks, and then, more strange happenings began. At first, the magical devices throughout the realm flickered, as if something was trying to cut them off from the Well. Vehlar noticed this first, and was bold, or arrogant, enough to claim that it was those in the capital who were responsible for the brief but increasingly more frequent power failures.

Nobody could prove him wrong, for even among the Highborne, there was intense jealously directed towards those Azshara favored. It wasn't just devices though, sorcerers from all skill levels had varying degrees of success with their spells, and as Laronar saw the unrest this caused, he began to wonder if there was another way to use magic, that didn't involve the Well of Eternity.

He was old enough to have been taught of the other races, and although he doubted much of what Vehlar taught him, he did know at least that the Zandalari would try to attack, if the Night Elves were left defenseless. They had been enemies for as long as their empires had existed, and many Kaldorei believed the trolls, more than any other race, coveted their Well and the magical might it gave them.

He doubted the Furbolgs would attack though, for he had met some once in his wandering through the woods. They refused to harm a child, and he had no desire to harm them. Making good use of his tiny repertoire of spells, he had talked to the forest dwellers in their own tongue, and quickly befriended them, finding them a bit odd, but kind, if one didn't insult them with every other sentence. Eventually, he made friends with their own young, occasionally wrestling with their cubs alongside Storm, who was now large enough for the gangly child to ride. The only other race that was close to Eldarath were the Tauren, another race the young Kaldorei didn't know how to think of.

His people called them monsters, but to him, Vehlar was just as much a monster as a rampaging bull-man, and he was a Highborne, supposedly the best a Kaldorei could possibly be. Surely not all the Tauren could be bad. They were scary, though. Giant horns, hooved feet, and the sheer size of them was said to match that of a full grown Nightsaber, but on two legs. These tales, and his own general tendency to be aloof, kept him far from Highmountain, where he knew several tribes resided.

* * *

Several days after the initial losses in power, the magic vanished completely. The magi of the city were stunned, and the people, upper class and low, panicked. They were far from Suramar, and Zin Azshari. Without a full Moon Guard garrison of their own, all they had in the way of defense were the local guardsmen, and the Moon Priestesses, though they very rarely fought.

Then, roughly a week later, strange reports of large scale slaughter came in from Suramar. Massive beasts were, supposedly, rampaging through the capital of Zin Azshari while the Highborne in the palace simply watched. For the first time in his life, Vehlar did not go around boasting about his status, for these reports were confirmed by the Priestesses, and the attitude towards the aristocracy turned dark indeed.

Then, two weeks into the crisis, word came from Lord Ravencrest of Black Rook Hold. All available soldiers, priestesses, and magi were to ride for Suramar to supplement an army that was being formed from all over the empire to fight the invading monsters. Though many in Eldarath still doubted the veracity of these reports, the leaders knew well enough not to refuse the house of Ravencrest.

He and his kin were not like most nobles, and would not have bothered sending a messenger had the situation been easy enough to handle alone. Laronar himself had admired the lord, for out of all the many living legends he'd been forced to learn about, Kur'talos Ravencrest was the one who seemed the most…genuine. His deeds spoke for him, and none doubted his skill. If the Highborne kept their race ahead of their enemies with magical might, it was Black Rook Hold that kept them strong in the way of soldiers, armies, and siege engines.

* * *

Laronar's parents elected to not answer the call, as did many who had small children. His father was put in charge of what little guardsmen would remain in the city, and his mother would continue trying to keep the huddled masses calm under the light of Elune in the temple of Zin-Malor, alongside his sister, while the other sisters rode for Suramar.

Vehlar however, relished the chance to strike at the beasts terrorizing the realm. He left abruptly, with no farewells to his family. Laronar didn't know quite how to feel. He almost wished the source of his torment to be torn apart by the mysterious invaders, but at the same time, he was still blood. Still his brother. It was a confusing set of emotions. Either way, he did not expect to see Vehlar again.

The mood in the city turned to one of constant fear, and with all eyes trained on the east, Laronar had no trouble sneaking out to the west on his pet. He had discovered that neither he, nor Storm, particularly liked the saddles used for young sabercats, so they often rode bareback. With a mount under him, Laronar had been able to ride much farther out than he had ever gotten on foot, and although the forests were dangerous, most animals shied away from the young pair.

Someday, Laronar planned to ride all the way up to Mount Hyjal's summit on his loyal mount. He had no idea then, that he would be bringing the rest of his people with him when the time for such a ride arrived.

* * *

Several more weeks passed, and suddenly the magic returned, as strong as it had ever been. While Laronar hadn't really missed it, it was nice to know it was available if he needed to use it. He wasn't very good at duels, however, but he knew that Storm would be able to distract whatever enemy they faced long enough for him to at least conjure a bolt of Starfire. Such spells kept him safe in the wilds, though he was always hesitant to use them, unless threatened first.

His parents expected their eldest son to return any day, but Laronar knew better. Now that the magic had returned, his brother would stay and show everyone just how strong he was. The young Kaldorei didn't quite know how, but he swore he would find a way to be just as strong as his brother, without using the Well. He'd looked into other magics, now that the Academy was no longer under Vehlar's thumb, or even holding classes. A few bored librarians were all that remained of the magical might in Eldarath, and they were fine with helping the amber-eyed child discover more about magic.

In his now eleven-year-old mind, this disaster had only proved how dangerous and unreliable their magic was. He had read stories of the Troll's magic, and even magic among the Tauren. Surely theirs would be different, given that they did not have the Well to fuel it. Since they were strong enough to be considered a threat to the massive elven empire, whatever they used had to be strong, though when he asked how he might learn such things, the librarian had warned him away. He claimed the Trolls practiced blood sacrifices and cannibalism, while the Tauren worshiped more primitive powers, like those wielded by Cenarius, the Forest Lord. Laronar had immediately tried to learn as much as he could about the figure, for he was regarded with the same respect as Elune, but he never had the time to learn much before Eldarath learned of what exactly had come to their world.

With the magic back, the citizens calmed, and life began to return to some semblance of normalcy, despite the fact that much of their population was now gone. Ravencrest had called in everyone. The young elf sincerely hoped that their General would be able to quell whatever new threat had arisen. Eldarath, and many of the settlements this far west, were simply too poorly defended to stave off an invasion.


	3. The War of the Ancients

**The War of the Ancients**

* * *

With the return of the Well's power, and the lack of new reports on whatever was happening to their people, calm heads reigned in Eldarath. Some even claimed that it was a sign that Ravencrest's army had succeeded in defeating the invaders. What word they had received had claimed that the Highborne in the Capital had summoned an army of monsters, and were holding the Queen hostage as they made a grab for power. The people were only too glad to pin these troubling events on Zin'Azshari, for the Highborne there were, supposedly, even more full of themselves then the others throughout their empire.

Those who doubted that Ravencrest had succeeded were few in number, but they existed all the same, and their voices only grew louder as no news arrived. Sure enough, after several more weeks, the feeling of darkness and unease returned, and this time, the wildlife around the city fled. The skies darkened with foul clouds, and what sorcerers remained divined ill omens on the horizon. Nightly watches were posted on the eastern end of the city, more to keep the appearance of readiness, than forming an actual, feasible defense.

Even the Nightsabers, loyal for generations to their owners, very much wanted to flee with the rest of the animals. Word finally came from the front, something none of the citizens had seen or could even properly conceptualize yet, and with it, came many startling revelations. Their enemy was a horde of 'demons', drawn to their world through a portal concocted by the Highborne in the palace of the capital.

The traitors had captured the Queen, somehow, and were now rumored to be using her magic to bring in even more 'demons'. The army had beaten back the demon's initial advance, but even now was being driven directly toward Eldarath after a cunning trap had been sprung upon the defenders. Ravencrest's renewed assault on the demons had turned into a rout. The messenger told them to flee, for the demon's numbers were 'legion', and they were spreading all over the empire with devastating results. The Kaldorei simply did not have the numbers to keep them from rampaging in multiple directions.

* * *

The people of Eldarath prepared for the onslaught, fortifying what they could as those who could not fight, fled further west. Those who stayed did so because they had been ordered to be ready to receive the Kaldorei forces. The General needed Eldarath to recover and regroup, and the few citizens who remained, Laronar and his family among them, prepared for war.

At the very least, they knew that their indomitable Lord Reavencrest could turn this rout around once he reached Eldarath. The city was beautiful, but also fortified with large walls, and many now-empty homes for the army. They could hold out here, and push back, or so the messenger had claimed.

He'd bolstered the city's defenders with tales of powerful sorcerers on the front lines of the battle, in the form of twin heroes. The Brothers Stormrage. Alongside them were other, seemingly foreign spellcasters who had, according to rumor, been quite helpful to the Night Elves in their hour of need. The situation was dire, but those who remained in the city could look past their racism if it meant allies. To them, this threat was quickly becoming the largest their species had faced. They had no true conception of just how bad things had gotten, however. This far west, all remained quiet.

* * *

Several days later, just as the dark of night was beginning to fall on the city of Eldarath, a woman's scream woke Laronar from his sleep, the pleasant dream he'd been having faded quickly. He blinked his glowing amber orbs slowly, and looked around his room. It was in the topmost part of the tree-house; he had insisted the shapers make it so when he was small.

The young Kaldorei sat up as he heard another scream and the sound of flames outside his window. Fires were rare, but when you live in a society of mages that take residence in mostly wooden houses, they happen. As the boy climbed down off his bed and stepped towards the window, a horrible roar echoed through the air. It sent a chill up his spine. Whatever creature had made that was mad with rage.

It wasn't a Furbolg, or Tauren roar, and it certainly wasn't a sound the boy had heard any saber cat make before. Curious, he went to his window, climbing on the windowsill, and leaning against the glass so he could see the town. They lived west of the Well, and mainly produced food for the realm of the Night Elves. Some even said their food was given to the Queen herself.

* * *

Eldarath, considered to be one of the most beautiful cities in the entire Kaldorei Empire, save Zin-Azshari itself, was now on fire. But this fire was different, in some places it burned green instead of red-orange. The young boy looked out in horror at the city. A pang of fear shot through him as he realized his mother, a Priestess of Elune, was probably out there. From this vantage point, the Temple of the Moon had already been hit by whatever was rampaging outside.

Hard steps pounded on the stairs leading up to his room, and as the boy turned, he saw his father. Without a word, his father plucked him from the windowsill, and carried him down and out of the house.

Once outside, he finally spoke, "Take my hand, and no matter what you do son, don't look back." Tears welled up in the boy's eyes, and he said in a shaky voice, "B-but what about mom and Alaria?" Grabbing his hand and forcing him to run with him, the boy's father replied, "Laronar, your mother and sister will be fine. They're going to meet us at Lord Ravencrest's camp, which is still heading our way. The demons beat him here. Now come! We must flee."

* * *

The two raced down the city streets towards the stables, which had not yet caught fire. A large crowd had gathered outside the stables, and the stable master was desperately trying to calm them. Laronar looked at the stables as they began to run past, and in half a second, he decided to disobey the only order he'd been given, and let go of his father's hand. He crawled through the legs of the people in the crowd as his parent tried futilely to stop him.

Once he reached the stable master, he skillfully rolled past her, and ran to the back. Inside a smaller pen was the young Stormsaber the boy had found as a kitten. He hadn't been a runt, but he was odd in that he had a mane of dark blue fur on his upper neck and shoulders, almost like a lion's. Upon seeing his master and friend, the young cat, who was five feet tall on two legs, scratched at the door, eager to get out. Laronar grabbed his collar, attached it, and opened the door. As he ran back out the stable's front with his pet, the crowd let him pass, and seemed to grow even more rowdy as they watched him run off, presumably to safety.

On the far edge he saw his father with his arms crossed and a sour expression on his face. "You have the cat." He said flatly, "Now let's go."

"His name is Storm!" the boy replied, sounding younger than he was.

* * *

He tugged on the saber cat's rope, and Storm followed him. As the boy, his father, and his loyal pet ran out of the city and into the forest, a loud boom, followed by a roar, echoed behind them. The same roar the boy had heard back in his room. The wooded area in front of them was lit in an eerie green light.

His father started to sprint, and shouted "Run!" While Storm picked up speed, fueled by his fear; he managed to break free of Laronar's grip before the young Kaldorei could jump onto his back. Running as fast as his legs could carry him; the boy soon began to tire. That's when he heard the flap of wings.

His father disappeared into the trees in the distance, as did Storm. Neither seemed to notice he was falling behind, and Laronar lacked the breath to yell for them. Turning his head to see what chased him, despite his father's orders, he beheld a sight that caused his legs to freeze instantly, making him trip, and his forward momentum sent him flying into a nearby bush.

* * *

The creature he beheld was enormous, winged, hoofed like a Tauren, and on fire, its terrible outline was made even more terrifying by the green flames that blazed where the stable had once stood only minutes before. The crowd of people was almost certainly dead. The demon, for there was no other creature he knew of that could cause this kind of destruction, had eyes that blazed an eerie green, but that wasn't what the boy's eyes were drawn to and fixated on as he examined the creature.

In the demon's hands, impaled upon an impossibly long lance, was his mother. Her silver eyes were open, as was her mouth, and her stomach now had a lance tip protruding from it. The white gown that had marked her as one of Elune's chosen was now stained with her blood. She had been caught from behind. Of his sister, there was no sign.

Noticing where the boy's eyes were staring, the creature let out a dark laugh. Then, it spoke to him in broken elvish, "Know her do you? Ahahah! I killed her while she tended to fallen ones! Foolish mortal…like her, you shall be burned from this world! For Sargeras!" The demon raised the spear, effortlessly, despite the corpse still hanging from it.

* * *

Laronar did not clearly see what happened next. He had closed his amber eyes as the demon brought his lance down in an arc towards his head, sure in that moment, he was about to die. He was strangely okay with that, for the sight of his dead, beloved mother had shaken him. He didn't want to imagine a world without her in it. Without his sister in it, for he knew she had likely suffered the same fate.

If he had kept his eyes open, he would've seen his father jump in front of the blow while Storm lunged from the bushes, and tore out the creature's throat. Realizing after a moment that he was not dead, Laronar opened his eyes, and gaped at the form of his father, not an inch away from his mother, cut and bleeding from the enormous gash the lance had left in his right shoulder.

"Run…son…" was all his father managed to say before his last breath escaped him. It was the sight of the two people he loved most dearly in the world, dead before him, that caused him to finally black out. Storm, who had since spit out and wiped the creature's burning blood from his muzzle, managed to get his friend onto his back, and carried him off into the woods, hoping to find civilization far, far away from the burning city that had been their home.

* * *

For the rest of the night, the loyal Stormsaber carried the young Night Elf, who was delirious at best. Other creatures might've abandoned their masters, no matter their loyalty, but the bond between Storm and Laronar was unbreakable. The cat, though he was young, sensed potential in his master, though he couldn't identify what sort of potential it was.

He knew his friend was training to be a fire-tosser, like his cruel elder brother who had often liked to make the young Stormsaber dodge bursts of moon-flame when he was a kitten, but his master wasn't like his brother. He was kind, shy, and reclusive, different from the other elf children the cat had encountered. His friend lacked their haughty attitude of superiority, and deluded sense of power.

Storm knew his young friend had _natural_ power, and lots of it, even if he had no idea how to tap into it yet. It was this same power that attracted the attention of a being far more powerful than both of them as they wandered aimlessly through the forest. When finally the young cat knew it could walk no further with such a burden, his ears suddenly flicked up, and the cat looked around. They were not alone.

* * *

The forest around the young Stormsaber shook, and a mighty wind blew the leaves and twigs on the floor up and around. The cat eyed the twister with suspicion, and as it formed the outline of a creature five times taller than him, the young cat snarled low. Only once the form coalesced completely did it stop, gazing at the figure before it. He felt a large hand on his head, and the cat lowered his ears back, purring even, as this being, with such natural power that it made his master's look like a flea by comparison, scratched his ears.

Storm couldn't have struck the hand even had he wanted to. It went against his instincts. "You two have traveled far…" the being's voice rolled like soft thunder through the cat's ears, though he didn't understand the words entirely, he grasped their meaning. "But you are heading away from where your destiny lies…"

Energy filled the young cat, removing his weariness. He suddenly felt compelled to run in a certain direction, and knew that this newfound strength would last until he reached it. "Go on." The antlered being spoke softly, rising onto four proud legs like those of a stag. "Run to your people…we shall meet again."

And as the young cat did as he was told, he ran with renewed strength towards the growing refugee population of what remained of the Night Elves' civilization. It was arguably one of the safest places for an orphan. Once the cat was out of sight, the being who had re-energized it turned his mighty gaze to the shadows. "I have done as you asked. Will you now join us?"

There was a low, but pleased purr that came from the massive, ash-furred form lurking in the shadows.

* * *

The forces that tore through the world were only now being diverted back to deal with Ravencrest's Night Elven resistance, but that had not saved Eldarath. Not all of it, at least. Many still survived, and among them, were Laronar's siblings, though they too had headed in a different direction, toward the city of Loreth'aran.

Surely dragon riders would be able to hold back the monsters they had seen so far. That had been their reasoning anyways, but as their paths diverged, the Stormclaw siblings knew not the fate of their family.

The eldest did not care overmuch, though he was proud of his sister. The middle child was unconscious, deep in sleep that he did not want to wake from, and the youngest, who had watched her mother die before her very young, impressionable eyes only wanted to find their father and their brother…but Vehlar had decided on Loreth'aran…and to Loreth'aran they would go.

* * *

The trek was long, but eventually Storm was found by the sentries guarding the backmost part of the Night Elven lines. Mount Hyjal loomed in the distance, and although the Night Elves now pushed forward again, the refugees had been ordered to remain behind where they were. They weren't a very long ride from the battle though, which raged now just past the other side of Suramar, and many soldiers rested amongst the tents, exhausted.

An entire night and half of a day had passed since the horrifying encounter with the winged demon, but Storm had not been the only one to benefit from the encounter with the Forest Lord. Laronar's nightmares had turned into more pleasant dreams, but he was still wounded and concussed from flying headfirst into a tree.

The shock of what he'd seen had only helped keep his self-induced coma going, but as he felt his bruised head and scratched limbs being tended to, he opened his eyes wearily, which brought a soft gasp, and an end to his healing. It resumed almost immediately, but the face of the priestess responsible for it only now came into focus. Her mind was clearly elsewhere as the young elf saw her, like so many others, staring at his eyes, and Laronar did not recognize her, or his surroundings for that matter.

"W-where…?" His voice cracked. So close to puberty, and having gone over a day without water, it was obvious. He hadn't spoken often prior to his rushed escape either, which didn't help.

* * *

His cracked voice brought a giggle from somewhere behind the priestess healing him, and once that was done, he sat up, seeking its source. A small female perched on the back of the white Frostsaber that, he assumed, belonged to the priestess. She was his age, or around it, and as he took in her features, he did not find them unpleasant. It might have been Elune's warmth filling him and healing his head and the several scratches he'd gotten from riding unconscious through the woods, but he found himself smiling at the girl, despite the horror that lingered at the edge of his memory. She smirked, as she tossed him a water skin.

Once he had drunk his fill, the priestess caught his gaze. "We found you unconscious, riding in atop a saddleless Stormsaber young one…how did you come to be here?"

With effort, Laronar described his escape from Eldarath with his father, and he continued spinning the tale until he remembered something he shouldn't have. His voice had faltered as he described the demon chasing him, but the priestess seemed to assume what had happened next. That didn't stop Laronar from tearing up however, but then he blinked as he realized who must have saved him.

* * *

"Where's Storm?" he asked, sounding very young.

His voice was still soft, but his question earned another giggle. "You named your Stormsaber …Storm?"

"Hush, Shandris…" the priestess said, turning. Her gaze fell back on the young orphan. "He was taken to the stables with the other Nightsabers…he's too small to be properly ridden in war, and should still be there."

A slight smirk graced the priestesses' lips as she turned to her small companion. "Go with him, and help him find his pet, Shandris." That got a groan from the younger female, but she hopped off as the priestess mounted up, and moved on to heal someone else.

"Come on…" Shandris groaned, as she dashed through the crowds towards what Laronar assumed were the stables. He ran after her, shaky at first, but eventually matching her pace. Once he caught up however, she would dart off in another random direction, smirking.

* * *

Though he got lost twice in the crowd, his guide managed to find him again with ease. More than one person had stared at him longer than normal because of his eyes, and it was their glow that made him an easy target, or so Shandris had said, in a bragging tone. The young male would've started to like the female had she not been so brash. And bossy. And rude.

On second thought, he decided, she was as bad as every other girl his age. His juvenile thoughts were swept away however, as he saw the stables. Or what passed for them. Never had he seen so many of the giant cats in one place, and before Shandris could stop him, or warn him that these were war panthers, and did not appreciate strange elves in their midst, Laronar had dashed in anyways, just as quick as she was, when he wanted to be.

Though several of the beasts had hissed at him, none had struck. They had seen battle, and knew on a primal level that they needed as many two-legs as possible to drive back the monstrosities that should not have existed in this world. Several minutes later, he returned with his pet, riding on his back. It was his turn to smirk, for he knew that children his age rarely knew how to ride the great cats. He offered a hand to his reluctant guide. "Come…let's find your priestess."

With that, the trio set off into the crowd again, searching fruitlessly until they spotted the figure Shandris had named Tirandee. Or something similar to it. Laronar hadn't been focusing on her name, just the faces he passed. The pain and suffering was evident on all of them, and slowly, it dawned on the young Night Elf that this war was quickly becoming less about kingdoms and territories, and more about their very survival as a species. None, not even the Zandalari, had ever driven so many of them to such poverty, and in so short a time.

* * *

Once he'd found and thanked the priestess, which wasn't all that hard, once they sighted the glow surrounding her, he turned Storm to the woods surrounding the refugees. They were both hungry, but luckily, they could both subsist on meat. That had been another factor that separated him from his mostly vegetarian people, and though some did enjoy meat, it was typically seen as luxury food, or food for their mounts. Grown Nightsabers ate hundreds of pounds of it, so naturally, their riders had opted to subsist primarily on what the large cats did not eat.

Storm had grown fond of having his cooked however, and Laronar hadn't minded the taste. They had hunted together before, though Storm did most of the hunting. Laronar always cooked what he brought back by way of Moonfire, and now, it was no different, save that this time they ate to survive. With no parents or family, or even friends, the young elf knew that he and his friend were dangerously alone. Only together could they survive.

Months passed, and the refugees eventually became separated from the soldiers. Only a small guard had been left to defend them, but each refugee had been given a weapon. A testament to just how many had fallen in the battle. Laronar did what he could with the glaive he'd traded his shortsword for, but much preferred his dagger when hunting.

Hunting was mainly the focus of his efforts as well. Between him and his pet, the pair brought back many deer, rabbits, squirrels, and other animals that had fled too far to be properly hunted by the refugees anymore. Since he was the only one around with a Nightsaber, he could range further than anyone else, and often did so. Mostly because he couldn't stand berries and mushrooms, but also because he hated the looks he got from the other refugees.

* * *

Even here, his eyes marked him. He even had a rumor surrounding him, that his eyes were the reason he was the only known survivor of Eldarath, and he was even more isolated because of that absurd notion. Still, he kept his Highborne roots a secret, for the adults around the nightly campfires often railed against them, blaming them entirely for reducing the proud Kaldorei to such squalor.

It was during those long months, that stretched to over a year when he turned twelve, that he learned the lower caste was not all that much better than the higher one. Where Highborne sneered, commoners complained. Where nobles made grand, insulting gestures of dismissal, commoners started pointless fist fights. Where the upper crust sniffed powder and burned special weeds grown on the shores of the Well, commoners indulged in wine, and other crude, foul tasting drinks stolen and refined from the dwarves. Laronar had tried them, but stopped when it became clear that his body was rejecting the foul liquid, and telling him not to imbibe more. He saw no sense in willingly drinking something that made one a fool, and made one's body and mind throb with pain. He could not fathom why some refugees subjected themselves to this almost constantly, or as much as they were able, though after what he'd seen, he imagined being able to forget in painful blackout bliss was some kind of relief.

So it was that Laronar eventually stopped seeing himself as a noble among commoners, but as entirely casteless altogether. In a time where survival meant sticking with the group, one would think this would be a bad thing, but the young Kaldorei both fended for himself and his pet, as well as those who had nothing, not even the strength to forage. Those people, noble and commoner alike, were the ones he helped the most when he brought back food to their giant camp. They understood what he did. There _were_ no castes anymore. Their society had been utterly shattered. Most simply did not seem to realize it. Most still clung to the hope that the host of warriors would drive the demons back, save the Queen, and restore their empire.

* * *

The elders did not only complain about the upper castes, but also the living conditions, which were poor compared to what many of the elves were used to, they also tended to place blame on the _other_ races one of the pale outsiders aiding the cause had brought in against Stareye's orders for their lack of progress. Many however, saw the sense in gathering the other races. They had all seen the demon horde, and they were painfully aware that their own race was nowhere near numerous enough to stop them. Not alone, anyways. The odd trio of outlanders responsible for these desperate alliances, or so the stories from the wounded soldiers sent back to recoup went, aided their cause much, and after the fall of Lord Ravencrest by way of assassin, Desdel Stareye had taken his place.

The word from the front lines was that he was incompetent at best, though he hadn't managed to lose the war yet, in no small part thanks to the races that now aided the Night Elves. After hearing that Furbolgs, Tauren, and even Dwarves had come, Laronar had grinned privately to himself, glad that his assumptions about the beast men had been true. He hoped the Furbolgs would survive this as well, and wondered if the village that lay far outside his former home had been one of the ones to join the fighting.

Eventually, it was decided that the refugees would stay closer to the host of soldiers as they regained even more ground, to avoid having them end up as prisoners used as leverage, and keep them all safe. They were forced to camp in the parts of the land that the demons had not yet ravaged, only because so much had been focused on fighting the defenders. It did however, mean that they were once again reduced to eating berries and mushrooms, for no animals remained that far east, no matter how far Laronar rode to look for them.

* * *

Their out of the way camp did not prevent them from seeing the arrival of the dragons, however. Many cheered, praising the Moon Goddess as on one cloudy, grim night, thousands of the legendary beasts, in five variations of color, flew over the ravaged lands, and eradicated the foul mist that had settled over much of them.

The black one leading the thunder of dragons looked especially strong, and for the first time in months, the Night Elf people felt hope. Hope that was, not more than a half hour later, utterly dashed as the black behemoth leading the flights turned on them, eradicating many if not all of the blue ones, and scattering the others with unimaginably powerful wind. Even the one red that had stood up to him, had fallen.

To top all this destruction off, the very elements themselves began to roar not long after the dragon fled. Wind tore through the region, and rain fell for the first time in weeks, but it fell hard on the refugees, and even harder on the soldiers and demons. Still, water was water, and much was gathered from the deluge before it moved eastward towards the fleeing demons, chasing them across the ruined land that the black dragon had created with his rays of power. The whole display had astounded Laronar, though he understood little of it. He no longer wondered if magic other than elven sorcery existed, but he had no earthly idea of how an elf like him would go about attaining power that literally raised volcanoes.

He was suspicious of the rain, though. Weather did not usually move that quickly or with such direction, and that left the young elf puzzled as to _why_ it had done so. He had felt a hint of magic in it, but it was not the kind of magic drawn from the Well. His brief study of Cenarius had suggested the Forest Lord had such power, but surely if that legendary being was among them, there would be word of it. So far, the Ancients the elves had given places of honor to amidst their worship of Elune had remained absent.

* * *

Several days passed, and things seemed to be returning to normal…until the young Kaldorei was once again reminded that there was a war going on outside of the empty woods he roamed in. His only alert was Storm's snarl, which had once or twice warned him of approaching demons. Those encounters had been brief, but lucky. Together, the young caster and his pet could handle a few of the demons.

His pet especially, since he had grown even more, much to Laronar's distress. More than one soldier had tried stealing the cat in the blinding gleam of day, only to find that Storm was wild. Wild enough at least, to strike out at those who would armor him up and march him to his death. He did not intend to leave his friend, nor did his friend acquiesce to giving his pet up 'for the greater good'.

He was more than a mount to the young elf, but that didn't stop his reputation from receiving a blow because of his refusal. As the Kaldorei turned to see what had interested his friend, for he had not heard the roar of battle or sound of demons, his eyes widened in shock. An enormous panther with fangs as large as he was tall now seemed to be communicating with his Stormsaber. Laronar continued to watch for a moment, before the great beast's head jerked up at him, and eyed him with far more intelligence than he would've thought possible in a cat. Not even his loyal pet and friend showed such. A voice echoed in his head as the great panther turned, and walked into the woods.

 _"You will do…"_

* * *

Having no idea what that meant, or what they had just encountered, the pair followed the great cat's trail, and gasped again. A procession of creatures the likes of which neither of the young beings had ever seen now marched through the woods, seeming to restore the forest's vitality wherever they stepped.

Even an untrained fool could recognize that they were guardians of nature itself, and at their head, was an antlered being striding along on a pair of four strong stag legs. Cenarius, for it could be no other legendary figure, grinned widely, and winked at the pair as he walked by.

The females who resembled him turned their heads as they passed, smiling, waving, or simply examining the pair their lord had noticed. Laronar for his part simply stared with his mouth open as figures from legends and stories his parents told him strode past without so much as a glance at the two.

The great panther appeared again briefly from behind them, for both Laronar and Storm had turned to gaze at where Cenarius was leading these beings. The panther, clearly female, purred as she brushed against Laronar, who blinked in surprise, not fully recognizing the panther until she had strode past and tapped his cheek with her tail in passing. He glanced at his pet, noticing what he could've sworn was a grin on the Stormsaber's visage.

"Come on you…" he muttered, still shaken by the sight he'd just witnessed. "Let's get back to the others…they'll want to see this."

* * *

And see it they did. The refugees peeked out from their hiding places in the trees, watching in awe as Cenarius talked and then _kneeled_ before the latest commander of the defenders, Jarod Shadowsong. Those who had until that point wondered at his competence after Stareye's untimely, and yet not entirely unwelcome demise, now stared at him in awe. After more conversation, the great beings made their way back towards the refugees, who cautiously came out to meet them.

Laronar felt the Stag Lord's gaze upon him for a moment as they approached, but soon it turned on the elder who spoke for the refugees. After rejecting an offer of food or water, the demi-gods settled down in preparation for the battle ahead, and once more, the devastated land under them reacted to their presence. It was no longer black and burnt, but nor was it green and lush. It would take real effort to heal such devastation, and that effort was being saved for the coming battle.

Eager to greet the demigods of legend, the refugees began to set up their camp around the great beings. Those who were amiable to such displays of friendship greeted them eagerly, if only to satisfy the curiosity of the Night Elves, and perhaps rid them of their ignorance or arrogance. Cenarius had the largest group around him by far, and it was he who was recounting exact details of the events leading to the demon's arrival, for he had been the first of the defenders of the world to meet them in battle. The others listened in rapt attention, but Laronar hung by the back edge of the fire, listening intently of course, but having most of the names and events mentioned go completely over his head.

* * *

Once the story was over, he suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he whirled. Melting out of the shadows came the great panther he had seen earlier. He bowed low in the Highborne fashion as he'd been taught when greeting members of other noble families, finally recognizing her as an Ancient just as legendary as Cenarius, though he did not know her name, which elicited an amused growl from her.

A voice echoed in his head again as she turned, and looked back at him with amber eyes, so much like and yet not like his own. _"Come…"_ she said, and the young Night Elf obeyed. They made their way directly to where he and Storm slept, and he began to wonder just how much his pet had told her about him.

He stared at the ground as they sat, trying to recall if he had ever mistreated the cat. Unable to recall any particular incident, and unwilling to remember his former life in detail, he looked up now at the Ancient. Her form had shrunk considerably, though she looked no less dangerous, and still was much larger than Storm.

 _"Your friend has told me much about you, young Night Elf…"_ the Ancient's voice echoed in his skull, sounding almost how he recalled his mother had sounded. Or maybe, he just missed her. The panther continued, _"I am Ashamane, she who rules over the great cats of Kalimdor. I am all that they are, were, and will ever be. You, young one, have shown an affinity for my kind, and a kindness to this one in particular I intend to repay."_

That made the young Kaldorei start. Those blessed by such beings tended to never be heard from again. Ashamane seemed to smile, as if she read his thoughts, and he replied, "W-what do you intend to do with me, great one?"

* * *

The panther stared directly into his eyes now, sending a chill down Laronar's spine, the likes of which he had seldom felt before, and never noticed. Not to this degree at least. He found himself smiling at the great cat, though he did not know why.

 _"You have proven yourself a friend to the Nightsabers, and a friend to nature itself. When the time comes, call upon me, and you shall receive my gift in a manner no other elf ever has."_ Before he could ask her to elaborate, the great panther vanished into the shadows, her eyes held his until they too began to disappear.

He glanced at Storm, who seemed to eye him expectantly, and he reached out to pet his friend. The Stormsaber purred in response as he so often did when those he liked scratched behind his ears. Laronar was, of course, among those, but so was Shandris, even though they had not seen her for some time.

* * *

Exhausted, the young Night Elf settled in to sleep…until he heard the clatter of hooves behind him. He leapt up, dagger in hand as he turned, expecting one of the Doomguard.

Instead, he found himself staring at the lower half of the Forest Lord. As the young elf lowered his weapon and looked up, he met the ancient's gaze, and then bowed. The tone of the Stag Lord was serious however, as he spoke, "Ashamane spoke to you?"

It was a question he clearly already knew the answer to, but the Night Elf nodded. At that, Cenarius stroked his beard. "Be sure you do not upset her…Laronar Stormclaw."

With that, he turned and headed back towards the campfires. The young elf blinked, feeling worn out from seeing and speaking to so many legendary figures. He settled down, too tired to ponder whether the fact that Cenarius knew his name was a good or bad thing. Given what had happened to the other beings he'd named in his story earlier; he had a sneaking suspicion that being involved in this unfolding tale would be either a path to fame, or a path to his untimely demise.


	4. Kalimdor Sunders

**Kalimdor Sunders**

* * *

Not long after their arrival, the Ancients of Kalimdor were called into the battle against the demons. Even with the other races, they were losing ground. Cenarius, as their unofficial leader, produced a massive horn as he trotted toward the battlefield. A rumbling sound filled the air, starting low, and then increasing in potency as the note grew louder.

Every Ancient and demi-god began to glow with the Fury of nature itself, and for a time, even the elven defender's eyes shared the amber glow that was Azeroth's power. The world had been woken by Deathwing's betrayal, and her defenders had _not_ liked what they saw, rampaging across the continent with burning, mindless, slaughter.

The Ancient host immediately charged after the Forest Lord, and a few of the refugees went with them. It was an invigorating sound, and the horns of the united host blared as well as the additional defenders hit the front lines, utterly crushing a wedge the demons had formed to try to break the lines in two. With renewed fury, each of the Ancients rejoined the battle with sometimes almost mindless rage, and while the destruction they wrought was impressive…many began to fall.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of the demons perished under the wrath of the legendary defenders, but it soon became apparent many would not be coming back. Not even the giant, ferocious boar with the spikes. It looked as though Cenarius too would not be returning, as those who felled the boar turned on him as well, and that was when it appeared. A giant white stag, seemingly coming from nowhere, tore through the demons around Cenarius, and the defenders pulled the Forest Lord back.

There had been an almost zealot-like respect for the Forest Lord, since he had appeared. The Kaldorei had always claimed kinship with him, and now, that faith had been rewarded in their hour of need. Their racial focus was still very much on themselves. Only with time, would they learn that he had come to save their _world_ , not just them.

* * *

One of the elders among the refugees recognized the white stag as Malorne, though nobody among the throngs of civilians quite knew what he represented, or even who he fully was. All that could be remembered of his ancient legend was his power, and supposed fatherly bond to Cenarius.

As the Ancient tore through the demon's ranks for miles however, Laronar noticed a similarity in how he and Cenarius had fought. The more he thought it over, the more sense it made. His father had once spoken of the Moon and the Stag, but he'd assumed it had been a fairytale. Evidently not.

The white stag also used the power of the land to destroy his foes, and as the tide of the war itself began to, finally, tip in Azeroth's favor, a giant demon strode out to meet the stag in single combat. This surely had to be the one leading the army, for he was enormous and powerful. Both terrifying and aesthetically pleasing. Nothing like the demons they'd encountered so far. That was when many of the refugees began to grasp that they had _no idea_ of what the demons were, where they came from, why, or what race led their burning fury.

Not even Malorne could damage him much, and as the refugees watched helplessly, they gasped almost in unison as the demon held the stag in a headlock, and proceeded to snap his neck. The body of Malorne was tossed amongst the demon's own ranks, but it was clear that this large one did not care that it crushed its own forces. Only then did those not on the front lines begin to understand a truth the defenders doing the fighting had long known. They were outnumbered, severely.

* * *

Before the giant demon could strike again however, two things happened almost simultaneously. The dragons, minus the blues and blacks, appeared again and charged into the battle. The tide turned once more as the demons perished under their breath and claws, and Laronar once more had to re-evaluate the stories his parents and grandparents had shared with him. If Cenarius was the Lord of the Forest, the dragons were something else entirely.

Older than all of them, they were true immortals, and made a Kaldorei lifespan, the longest on the planet, look like an eyeblink in comparison. Once, the elves had supposedly given them respect, as defenders of the world, and the city of dragon riders on the western coast seemed to confirm the story. In the empire proper however, they were largely seen as mysterious, powerful, but beasts all the same. Meant to be slain, not worshiped. That was yet another view the Kaldorei people would soon re-evaluate.

The demon commander could not retaliate, for his form was covered in vines that seemed to grow relentlessly. At first it seemed as though Cenarius had done it, avenging the white stag as he had so many other Ancients, but the Forest Lord was still recuperating.

Word had reached the civilians of spellcasters of their own race who much aided the cause, and it seemed now that those tales were true. The one casting the vines could only be this Malfurion Stormrage, who called himself a 'druid', and utilized strange, but powerful forces, similar to Cenarius', to eradicate the demons en masse.

His power made the demon's leader flee, and once more, Laronar wondered how it was this caster used nature in such a manner. He made a mental note to ask, if he ever had the opportunity.

* * *

After the arrival of the dragons, a group of them lifted off again, and flew towards Zin Azshari, and it became suddenly clear that this war was in its final stages. The demons fought with mindless fury, not caring if they lived or died, and even the magic users amongst them now fully joined the fray. Death was everywhere.

Word came from Shadowsong that the refugees were to move back, past Suramar, and await the final word. They did as they were asked, and so missed entirely the final stages of the War of the Ancients, as the conflict would come to be known.

Several hours after their retreat, a runner reached them, and ordered their group to head for the slopes of Mount Hyjal. With no explanation as to why, they ran, and soon Laronar found himself outpacing the rest, simply because he had Storm on which to ride. That did not, however, stop him from helping.

He took a pair of siblings, two sisters, on the Stormsaber as well. The oldest was younger than him, and the other was still a toddler. Worried that she wouldn't make it, their mother had begged him to take them, and he had agreed before other such requests could find him. The elves were desperate, and he couldn't carry everybody.

Storm handled the extra weight with little apparent difficulty, but eventually, even his owner could see he was tiring. By then however, they were all but at the base of Hyjal. The climb was slow, but not too arduous as they reached the summit. They let the Stormsaber rest, and Laronar let the two sisters rest as well, assuring them that their mother would indeed survive. For his part, he went to stand by the edge of the summit, and look down the relatively bare mountain for the other refugees.

* * *

Sure enough, he spotted them, only now at the base of the great mountain, and as the earth began to shake, he gasped as, in the far distance, he saw it literally crumble away. Not that far ahead of the devastation was the army, but they managed to outpace the disaster as the very land was sundered, and brought beneath the powerful dark waves of what had once been the Well of Eternity.

A new ocean formed over the lands to the east. An ocean that had never existed there previously. He assumed then that all he had ever known, the entire Night Elven Empire, was now underwater.

"Humbling, is it not."

A deep voice came from behind the young elf, and he whirled in surprise, to behold a Tauren. He had known they were big, but never realized just how big until that very moment. This one in particular had horns like a moose, and what had to be his armor for war looked as though it had come from an eagle. Helm, spaulders, even the tattoos he bore were all in the pattern of the great birds.

How his people had ever fought off tribes of these creatures amazed him, and then, he recalled it had been because of the Well of Eternity. With that gone now, he wondered if the other races wouldn't take advantage of the elve's new weakness.

* * *

Deciding that he was too tired to care, he simply nodded, looking back at the new ocean. "It is. The world will be forever marked by the arrogance of our people…"

The Tauren joined the young Kaldorei, and nodded slowly. "It will be. And no amount of mending will ever repair this…Sundering. But you can atone, young one. Your entire race can, by embracing a new path."

This got a curious glance from Laronar, "New path?"

The Tauren nodded again, "Cenarius, Lord of the Forests and friend of the Tauren has asked that I teach you, as he taught Malfurion Stormrage. He has marked the potential within you for Druidism; however, you must be the one to decide to walk this path."

Looking back over at the new sea once more, Laronar nodded. "I want to learn." He said, "I want to help my race atone for what we've done. Maybe with time…even this sundered world can flourish."

* * *

After that, the Tauren followed the young elf, as he still had to guide the two siblings back to their mother. By the end of the day, what remained of the Night Elven people and their allies had climbed to the summit of Hyjal, but not before the lake at the very top had been tainted. Though Laronar had refilled their water from that same lake just hours before, Malfurion's brother had tainted it with vials of water from the Well of Eternity, now lost to history.

He managed to pour three of them in before he was stopped, and even killed several scouts after he'd been caught. Laronar had wanted to charge in to aid them, but his new teacher, Kota Skyhorn, had held him back, and counseled patience. The two simply stared as a Night Elf sporting a pair of proud antlers not unlike those of Cenarius strode forward after subduing the mad, tattooed elf with the strange, burning eyes.

Only after did Laronar realize that this antlered one must be Malfurion. He was too shy for an introduction, however, and Kota made no move to force one upon him. He had a family to reunite besides, and only after he did so did Laronar look around for his own, hoping that perhaps one of his siblings had survived.

* * *

He almost felt guilty for hoping his sister, not his brother, had been spared, but he saw neither. He slowly realized that, over the long months, he'd come to know those among the refugees rather well. Though there were many, it was still unnerving to him that almost his entire race was small enough to be able to be memorized. It was only once he looked down the mountain, that he saw other camps of refugees, from other directions. The demons had driven his people into the wilds, for miles, and after being called back by Archimonde, those who had managed to run quick enough had survived, and been guided to Hyjal by Cenarius' treants.

Once the two sisters were reunited with their mother, her thanks were delayed. The Night Elves stared up in wonder as three enormous dragons appeared on the mountainous summit with what remained of their civilization. They promised the Night Elves a chance at new prosperity, as each of the three planted and then empowered a small sapling which, by the end of their ritual, was already hundreds of feet tall, and only looked to keep growing.

They would retain their fertility, immortality, and connection to nature, provided they guarded this tree with their very souls. There was also something about a Dream, but that went entirely over Laronar's head. As the dragons spoke and cast their magic, they flew around and openly blessed this new 'World Tree'. They claimed that it was now tied to their race, forever.

* * *

Once it became clear that the elves would be settling on Hyjal first, and spreading to the surrounding lands, Kota led his new apprentice south, insisting that they begin his training immediately. At first, the Tauren objected to Storm coming with them, but the elf outright refused to abandon his friend and companion, and so the three traveled south, away from the Night Elves, and all Laronar and his pet had ever known.

He had no idea what becoming a druid would entail, but he wished to protect the world. For all his madness, Laronar too thought as Illidan Stormrage did, for he had loudly proclaimed what the young elf knew was an inevitable truth. That the demons would someday return.

Though he wasn't willing to burn out his eyes to combat them, he knew that he had to do whatever he could to help himself, and then his people, prepare for their coming. Even if he had to teach them all alone. He doubted he would though, for it seemed that Malfurion had begun seeking apprentices as soon as they had left, and had no shortage of those who were interested.

As they headed even further south, through a shadowy and clearly ancient forest all but untouched by any sentient race, Laronar began to wonder just how his learning would differ from what Malfurion was going to be teaching. Kota was Tauren, after all, and claimed that his race had been practicing the druidic arts far longer than any elf, but how they differed remained to be seen.


	5. The Wild Gods

**The Wild Gods**

* * *

Distanced. That was the word Laronar would later use to describe his experiences with a Tauren Shan'do. Kota was always writing, meditating, or healing the scars left by the Legion. Often he would have them camp along the new eastern edge of this broken world, and the Tauren would gaze across the sea at…something. Laronar did not pry, as the war had affected everyone deeply, no matter their race.

When he did teach his student however, Laronar hung on his every word. He did indeed possess the gift for druidism, and although he found talking to nature a slow, time-consuming process, eventually, he learned how to do it at will. It never answered him as strongly as he had seen it answer Kota, but that didn't bother him.

Once he had proven adept enough at communing and meditation, Kota moved on to the Animal Totems. "My people have long worshiped those that yours calls Ancients. My clan followed the one known as Aviana, and with her blessing, it is said that my ancestors soared the skies." His face grew grim, then. "But my people are also prone to violence…when they began to use Aviana's blessing for death, she stripped us of it entirely. Only my clan, the Skyhorn, still pay homage to Ohn'ara, the Great Eagle…but now, perhaps, we may once more learn what Cenarius passed to our Ancestors so long ago. Recently, Ohn'ara the eagle has granted me her power…I used it during the fighting. If she agrees, she may lend it to you, as well."

* * *

Laronar's eyes went wide. "Are you telling me I'll be able to fly?"

The Tauren chuckled, for the first time since they'd met, and then nodded. "But first, Cenarius has suggested we reach out to the spirit of Ursoc, that we might take his form, and avenge his fallen brother, should we find demons in our travels." Though there hadn't been many left behind, there had been enough. Even now, the Ancients hunted the remaining demonic taint, but it was a threat that would continue to fester for some time.

As the Tauren explained what the Animal Totems represented, and what a druid could do with them, Laronar began to tingle with an anticipation he'd not felt so far. The spells were strange to him, though they did not entirely differ from elven sorcery. He knew it would take him many years to master the basics Kota had taught him, but with his newfound immortality, he had all the time in the world.

His teacher however, did not. By the time his master felt Laronar was ready to actually attempt shapeshifting, the young elf had aged well into the latter stages of puberty, and was now twenty-five. Though he and his Shan'do were distant, they were also friends. Both however, were strong, silent types, and much of their days were spent barely saying a word to the other, except when there was teaching and educating to be done. It was a distant silence, but a companionable one.

* * *

Having never truly embraced his own people's narrow view of the world, he found the Tauren's to be much simpler, but no less true. Laronar recognized the haughtiness not just in his people, but himself as well, and though he kept his Tauren mentor from outright slandering his people, there were many arguments he could not win, simply because the Tauren only needed to drag him to the newly made eastern ocean to illustrate his point.

He did so many times over the years, and often refused to speak to Laronar until they reached it, no matter how far away they were. Slowly, the elf had learned to tread carefully around the Tauren's stubbornness. While many of his people's stereotypes had been wrong about the so-called 'rampaging bull-men', in regards to their stubborn nature, he privately felt they had been spot on.

More often than not his instructions for a spell or an exercise had simply been, "Do it again and again until you do it right." Now, however, the lessons required something far different to what the young druid had learned so far. He did not have to ask the trees and other beings of nature to give of themselves to heal, or concentrate on pulling the magic necessary from the world itself to power a spell, he simply had to meditate, and call upon one of the beings who had chosen to support the Tauren people in their mastery of the animal forms.

For once, Laronar planned to surprise his mentor, for he already knew exactly who he would seek to call upon. Conversing with Ursoc had gone…well enough, but the grieving bear had been too unfocused to grant his power, and Ohn'ara had claimed that her form was for the Tauren's people alone, not the race that had shattered the world. All that, while discouraging, had been fine, for Laronar knew of another Ancient, who had said she would pay him a favor for saving Storm. Though Ashamane had fallen in the War of the Ancients, he had been taught that beings such as she never truly died, and with time, could even return to the mortal plane. She had also told him to call upon her, and his instincts said that this would be the right time to do so.

* * *

The hardest part of this process was leaving his body enough to properly call upon the spirit of the one he sought. Kota had not yet taught him to walk the Emerald Dream, and in fact, had made little to no mention of it. Eventually though, the young Kaldorei managed to reach the appropriate state of semi-consciousness required for conversing with such a being.

 _"Ashamane…"_ he called, hearing his words echo not only in his head, but all around him, _"Ashamane…I call upon you now, seeking the favor you once promised to give me so many years ago. I am ready."_

He felt her consciousness once more, far weaker than it had been when they met, but still just as fierce. A part of her power flowed into him, and as he opened his eyes again, he found his mentor watching him with a slight frown. Before he could ask what made the Tauren frown, for it was never a good sign, he felt his body shift.

His mind changed as well, as a new, unfamiliar presence joined his differently shaped skull. He knew without words that this was the 'spirit' of his new form, a part of Ashamane herself perhaps, or an ancient Nightsaber, now long departed. He did not resist the beast within, but rather embraced what it wanted to do, where it wanted to look, and slowly, he managed to figure out how to work in conjunction with the spirit, rather than against it. He could sense it wished to aid him in doing whatever it was he needed the form for, and he knew as long as he didn't deny the cat too much or too often, it would let him do as he pleased.

* * *

His eyes, already so sharp in the darkness, became even sharper, and he knew they would see just as well in the daylight. A new host of smells assailed his nose, and at first, he was overwhelmed by them. With time, he managed to sort them out. Then, he looked down, and noticed his claws, not at all unlike those of his Stormsaber's.

Thinking of his pet and loyal friend, Laronar dashed down to the river they had been camping near. The jungle that surrounded them was just as old as the forest that surrounded Hyjal, and even more untamed. In this new form, he felt at home, for the first time in years. As he reached the river, he found a still spot, and stared at his reflection in awe. His eyes remained the same, but his form astounded him.

He looked similar to the Ancient, as he recalled what Ashamane had looked like, though he was undoubtedly male. He had muscles and bulk where she had not, and though he was less sleek, he knew he could be just as stealthy as she had. With practice. An unexpected feeling of amusement rippled through his mind, and a voice echoed softly within it. _"Use it well…"_

* * *

As he continued to admire his new form, he heard steps behind him. One scent, he recognized as Kota, the other however, was far more primal, and to his new senses, far more challenging. His nostrils flared, and his claws dug into the earth. A rival. The beast within awoke at the challenge and promise of combat, and Laronar felt the ferocity it was ready to attack with at a moment's notice.

He whirled, snarling at the challenger, who was already ready to pounce on him, and the two giant cats paused, blinking in confusion. Storm recognized his eyes, and Laronar recognized his loyal friend. They hadn't wrestled for years, since the Stormsaber had long ago gotten strong enough to overpower the elf easily, but now, a feral grin appeared on each visage.

What would have been a fight for dominance, now would be a wrestling match. Though he was still far smaller than Storm, Laronar wanted to test his new strength anyways, and after Laronar communicated with feelings and memories that the Stormsaber was not an actual threat, the spirit in his mind was all too willing to wrestle. The two cats leapt at each other, and went down in a rolling ball of snarls and flashing claws. Too late, Laronar realized that Kota would no doubt mistake this tussle as an actual fight. To his surprise though, the Tauren seemed ready to act, but stopped.

Perhaps it was because instead of biting each other as if trying to tear the other apart, the two giant cats were actually testing just how strong they were by comparison. In that regard, Storm clearly held the advantage, but Laronar had the cunning mind of an elf behind his brawn, and as the fight went on, he managed to tire his favored pet out with relative ease, dodging the large paws as Storm expended his energy.

Kota, still watching the two, now had a rare smirk. "Finish it, apprentice." He said, quietly. Clearly, the Tauren wanted to speak. Doing so in shifted forms was, according to the Tauren, impossible, for an animal's throat and a sentient's were fundamentally different. One could handle speech, and an animal's could not. Not without some kind of magical aid, at least. And so, Laronar dodged again, and struck at Storm's legs instead, sweeping them out from under him, and pinning him down with his bulk. A maneuver that would not have worked had the Stormsaber still had all of his stamina. Finally snarling in recognition of his defeat, Laronar rolled off of his friend, and brushed against him, purring loudly, as he walked over to his mentor.

* * *

With a bit of effort, his shape returned to the one he'd been born with, and the sudden dullness of his senses saddened him slightly. The young elf was covered in sweat, and panted hard as he sat next to his mentor, letting the cool night air slowly calm him down.

Now old enough to be considered a young adult by his people, Laronar had filled out his lanky form with muscles that he still had not bothered covering with a shirt. His ragged leather pants had gone in favor of a kilt with a leaf pattern on it, and a similarly patterned belt held it up. A pair of wooden bracers also covered his forearms. He had made them himself, and was slowly learning to craft better and more flexible armor from different kinds of wood. Someday, he wanted a pair of gauntlets, but that was a long way off. Most of his creations still broke with one or two hard hits.

"So." His mentor rumbled, "What was it like?"

Finally catching his breath, the young elf sat back against the giant tree they leaned upon, grinning. "It was…by far the most exhilarating experience of my life. I've never…smelled so much. Felt so powerful. I could live in that form forever."

"And that is what makes these forms so dangerous, my student. Spend too long in your animal form, and your mind is surely forfeit." Though Laronar did not know it then, and though he slightly doubted those words in that moment, he would be battling them for the rest of his life, wherever he went. It would take millennia for him to prove them wrong, but at that moment, he simply nodded, too naïve to think that his master could possibly be wrong. To him, Kota was an infallible font of knowledge, and he was but a novice who had been allowed to drink.

* * *

More years passed, and slowly, that novice became a full-fledged druid. Kota could clearly see that Laronar had an affinity not just for the cat form, but for all the animal totems he knew of. More, even, for through Ashamane's favor, she introduced him to many, like Tortolla, Aviana, and even Aessina, though she hadn't actually said anything to him, Ashamane assured him that the Mother Wisp approved of the path he was walking. He took her word for it. In time, Ursoc had answered the young druid as well, and the two had come to an accord of sorts.

Ashamane was clearly his favored patron, but to be an effective defender of the world, for he had told the bear god that was what he believed druids needed to become, he needed to have access to various forms, for various kinds of combat. He needed to be able to counter anything the demons would throw at him, and he intended to teach others of his kind to do the same. Eventually.

That, more than anything, convinced the bear ancient, and the spirit of his brother Ursol, as it had many other Ancients. The others however, save for the Storm Crow and Ashamane, had declined to empower druids of the race that had sundered the world. If they wished to take their forms, they could offer proper, devoted worship, as had been the practice since the Wild Gods came to be. The twin bears however agreed to, at the very least, look over the potential apprentices Laronar would one day lead to them via meditation.

* * *

Over the years Laronar had taken, and eventually mastered to some degree, far more animal forms than Kota. He had an affinity for communing with the Ancients, that much was obvious, though the Tauren could never tell if it was the elf himself and his disposition, or the fact that Ashamane was vouching for him that got him so far with so many usually reclusive spirits. After finally excelling at something, it was hard for the elf to not be arrogant about it. Still, he managed to hold his pride in check, and thanked every spirit profusely after taking their form.

When he was not practicing in their forms, in various kinds of combat with Storm or Kota, who favored the Bear Form for close range fighting, he spoke to the spirits themselves. Or rather, those who wanted to speak. Sometimes it was Ursoc or Ursol. Other nights, only Ashamane would answer him, as she always did.

He even spoke to Malorne once, or a representative of his, and gave the Stag God a bit of his energy, if only to help him recover sooner. Though that gesture was appreciated, it was still nothing compared to what he needed to fully recover from his duel with the demon lord. As the Night Elf learned, the three companions traveled as well. Storm, now a fully grown six hundred pound killing machine, kept them safe from danger while the druids meditated, and even helped them live off of his kills when times were tough, and food became scarce.

More than once, the druids had to satisfy themselves by hunting in their forms, but neither truly minded the raw meat. They trusted their bodies to digest it safely while they slept, but Kota made it clear each time that sleeping in their forms for a prolonged period was a bad idea. The more often he warned of the dangers of being in the animal forms too long however, the more Laronar wondered if he truly knew what he was speaking of. He had asked each of the spirits, but only Ashamane, who had become as close a friend to the elf as Storm or his mentor by that point, ever gave him a straight answer.

* * *

 _"Those who have taken our forms in the past have not always done so with your skill or caution, my young druid."_ The panther Ancient all but purred in his head. _"There have been some who have simply never turned back to what they once were, and remained in their forms until their death. Others, earned our ire by disrespecting us, and were so cursed to be half beast, and half whatever their race was. Few Night Elves have ever suffered this fate. The Tauren however, have been doing this much longer. Do as you have done so far, my druid, and you will never need worry about losing yourself, no matter how long you stay in my form."_

Though she had explained much, Laronar had a sneaking suspicion that the only form he didn't have to worry about was hers. Though the other Ancients were friendly to him, and even seemed to enjoy his conversations, he recognized that they were still leery. He was, after all, a Night Elf. A Highborne, no less, and though he had hidden that from his own people, he did not doubt that the other Ancients already knew. More than once, he had been outright denied even a conversation, merely because of his heritage.

Despite that, most of the Ancients were wise enough to recognize that he, at least, did not accept the arrogant views of the now fallen Highborne. He had not even attempted to speak to those from the palace, who had apparently escaped alongside the new High Priestess. Laronar had lost track of who exactly held that title now, for he knew that Dehjana had fallen in the war, but it mattered little to him.

He still felt the pain of losing his mother, and in part blamed Elune for not protecting her. For letting him see her like that. The vision of that Doomguard striking at him still haunted his dreams, and that final cut to the tie of his people's very religion had been the last thing truly identifying him as a Kaldorei. He considered himself a child of nature, not the stars, and for some reason, many of the Ancients he spoke to found that amusing.

* * *

As more time passed, Kota grew older, and seemingly distressed. He eventually began to make it clear that he desired to try to find his people. Eventually, they had come across the Tauren living in central Kalimdor, and had discovered that the antlers Kota bore were not the norm, even after their actions during the War of the Ancients. These other Tauren had retained horns like a bull's, strong, but fundamentally different. They had told the Skyhorn that his tribe had followed Huln Highmountain when the world sundered, and instead of running west from Suramar towards Hyjal, they had made for their ancient home of Highmountain. None knew if they yet lived. Now old enough to more than survive on his own, Laronar realized that he too wanted to move on.

They had avoided the northern part of the continent for years, staying around the jungles, plains, mountains, and savannahs of the central and southern parts of the continent. Though they had initially learned much, the young elf had grown tired of seeing the same sights over and over. They had always traveled by foot as well, for although they had each mastered their respective bird form, Kota preferred to walk.

Storm could have easily followed them, even from the air, but they had always remained on foot. Before they agreed to part however, Kota informed him that they had one last Ancient to contact.

* * *

"Lo'gosh, or Goldrinn, as your people call him, is the spirit of the wolves." Kota explained, "He is wild, fierce, powerful, and very hard to please. He demands the utmost loyalty and respect, as he feels he is due such, and punishes those who do not give it. Be wary of this one, Laronar. He will not bend his will so easily." With those words ringing in his head, the elf contacted the wolf Ancient, and waited. And waited. As he felt his rear beginning to tire from sitting still so long without moving, he began to ask again for Goldrinn's attention, and out of nowhere, the wolf god gave it.

 _"Who dares…?"_ A feral snarl filled Laronar's mind, and with as much respect as he could manage, he asked for the wolf's permission to take his form, after explaining that he was the first of his people to experience the animal forms, Goldrinn howled a laugh through his head, and Laronar felt Kota twitch.

Clearly, his master heard some of what was going on, or was having a similar conversation. _"Very well…Kaldorei…"_ He snarled the name with what seemed almost like…contempt. _"You may wear my form. Tell your people of its' power, its' glory! Embrace your ferocity, and howl, Moon Elf…"_

Laronar barely managed a 'thank you' before he felt the fury of the wolf Ancient pour into him. Whereas each of the other spirits, even Ashamane, had given but a small portion of themselves, this felt like Goldrinn in his entirety now flowed into the Night Elf. Only later would he realize that this power was but a fraction of Goldrinn's true fury.

* * *

With a savage howl, Laronar felt himself almost lose control as he stared at the full moon. For some reason, looking at it made him indescribably angry. He howled again, joined this time by Kota, who had also taken the form. The two wolves ran that night, howling all the way, in a primal madness that each druid could barely control. They ran, wrestled, howled, and prowled through the jungle of Feralas, knowing that on this night, no other predator could match them.

The only one that might've had a chance had stayed back at their camp. Each druid had done their utmost to guide the savage minds of the wolves away from Storm, for both were fond of him. Eventually, as the sun rose and their energy waned, Goldrinn's form melted off of them like a dust cloud, leaving both druids dazed, confused, and nude. In their initial transformation, both master and apprentice had torn through their clothes, their usual mastery of shifting gone under the fury of Goldrinn.

The two glanced at each other, and then laughed as they headed back towards where they thought their camp was. It had been a fun, but terrifying experience. "Obviously…my friend…" Kota began as they walked, "We need only use Goldrinn's form when in great peril. Do not…try to take it for fun as you do Ashamane's. You will lose yourself."

Laronar simply nodded, for once, believing those words. At least where Goldrinn was concerned, that risk was very real. Still, the admiration he felt for the wolf Ancient had only swelled. The _power_ he had at his command…the young druid could scarcely imagine what taking that form as a true servant of Goldrinn would be like. It was as he had that thought that Ashamane shared with him a tale from her own past, one that also involved wolves. The Kaldorei had never really domesticated canines, as war panthers were walking engines of death, as well as smart, loyal, and stealthy. A fitting mount for a people who walked in the night. Despite all of this, Laronar was still curious. Goldrinn had intrigued him, though he knew he had to wait until he was a bit...wiser to try to tame that form as he had the others.

* * *

Not long after that night, master and apprentice left, as equals. "I have no more that I can teach you, my friend. Your mastery of the animal totems now exceeds my own, and all you need for the other branching paths of Druidism is time…of which you have plenty."

Laronar bowed low. "I can never thank you enough for this, Kota of the Skyhorn."

The Tauren nodded, turning before adding one last statement, one both knew was true. "You are immortal my student, and I am not. Someday, I will pass on. If you truly wish to thank me, teach my people as I know you will teach yours. Let my knowledge live on through you until you too meet the end of your days, and never forget…death is as much a part of our calling as life...and it comes for all of us eventually."

Laronar nodded. "I swear, I will." With that, the Tauren nodded once again, and then shifted into his eagle form, which sported an almost silly pair of moose antlers, and took off into the sky.

Laronar turned to pat Storm, who gave a goodbye roar that echoed through the trees, and then he shifted into his Cat Form and ran off with his loyal pet by his side once more. They headed north now, though whether or not they would see other Night Elves remained a mystery. For all Laronar knew, his people had been wiped out by plague, or some other threat.


	6. The Druidic Masters

**The Druidic Masters**

* * *

As the pair of sabercats traveled northward, they came upon a stretch of forest nestled between the mountains, and all but hidden from the main valley. It was in this stretch of forest that Laronar decided, for the first time, to set up a home. He had little shaping experience however, but he still managed to create a passable house with the aid of his druidic abilities. On his own for the first time in years, not counting his Stormsaber of course, Laronar soon fell into a routine.

He hunted in the morning, and brought his kills home with little trouble thanks to his versatility with the animal forms. While he cooked up the meat, he would meditate, asking the wind to support him as he floated on it, and communed with the spirits. Once he was hungry enough, the smell of his dinner would draw him away, and he would eat his fill, and then save the rest using the techniques Kota had forced him to learn and relearn so often, they became more of a second thought than a concentrated effort.

He continued this cycle for years, letting Storm hunt as he pleased, where he pleased. The two were tied together, and he knew Ashamane would warn him should his friend befall a danger he couldn't handle. She had done so before. For over half a century, Laronar lived this hermetic life, and soon had a stockpile of dried meat that was so large, he knew he wouldn't have to hunt for some time. So instead, he practiced the basics Kota had taught him.

Talking to trees, the wind, the rocks, everything. He even gave his very energy to the land surrounding his home nightly before sleeping, and thus, the land flourished. He knew though, that someday it would end. He had needed this peaceful solitude. Needed it to heal, to come to grips with what he had lost, and finally become an adult in the mental sense, as well as the physical. His body had, almost without him noticing, become rather well-muscled the longer he practiced with his various shapes. Eventually, Ashamane admitted that his elven form would likely take on animal characteristics, the closer he became to her. She'd purred almost an entire evening when he'd said he wouldn't mind sharing her cat-like features in both of his forms.

* * *

His solitude did not, however, end in fire, like many of his dreams. One morning, as he was deciding if he should hunt or not now that his food stores had finally gotten lower, he heard Storm growl low, and he turned, his concentration broken. The giant cat, much larger than normal, even for his breed, stepped up beside the druid, and stared ahead expectantly. Then, Laronar felt it. A presence the very forest seemed to react to with…pride? Surprise? It felt like a mixture of both, and as it came closer, Laronar recognized it, though only vaguely.

The last time they had met, his senses had been as dull as a rock. He bowed low, in what he knew was the Tauren fashion. He had no idea if the Night elves had changed their style yet, and had no desire to reveal his upbringing. "Hail…Lord of the Forests...Cenarius."

As he spoke the figure coalesced out of seemingly thin air, and once more, the druid appreciated the Ancient's sense for dramatic entrances. A booming voice met his in reply, revealing just how soft his was in comparison, mostly thanks to lack of use. "Hail Laronar Stormclaw…I must say, I never expected this region to be so…healthy. When I discovered it, imagine my surprise when I found its source of health and vigor was you! We heard little after you disappeared with Kota."

At that, Laronar arched an eyebrow. "We?"

The Forest Lord nodded once, sending the birds that had perched on his antlers flapping away. "Aye, Night Elf. We. Malfurion and the others of your race who have, like you, taken up the mantle of druidism. They could use your help."

Laronar shook his head doubtfully, "I don't think I could be of much aid. I saw what Malfurion did during the…during the war. My skills, even now, cannot come close to his feats."

Moving into a sitting position by folding his powerful legs under him, and signaling he should do the same with one of the great bark-covered hands, Cenarius continued, "You would be surprised what a druid can truly do when the need is great. There are, however, gaps in your training that I have filled in for both the elves and the Tauren years ago. You have much to catch up on…and yet you are also ahead, in many ways. The Night Elves have only just begun learning how to shapeshift…and here you are, already friends with the Ancients themselves, many of whom would gladly let you take their form. Do not belittle your accomplishments, for even modesty has its limits."

* * *

As he listened, Laronar nodded. "Very well…you would have me teach them what I have learned, and I in turn could learn what you have already taught them. Where will I find them? On Mount Hyjal, beneath Nordrassil?"

At that the Forest Lord laughed, rising slowly as he spoke what was, clearly, his last contribution to the conversation. "No young druid, your people now reside in the ancient forests of Ashenvale…I suggest you head there with haste. The taint of demons has been found once more, and I know your skills will be needed to stop it."

"I will head there immediately." He said as the Forest Lord galloped off into…seemingly thin air. Even his footprints simply vanished. Someday, Laronar thought, he would learn that trick as well. Now though, he looked to Storm. "How about it, old friend? Shall we go find our people? I'm sure the female Nightsabers would worship you as a king." He smirked, scratching his friend under the jaw as he spoke, and the great cat purred.

He spent the rest of the evening packing, and gave the land around his home as much energy as he dared, for it would be the last for many years, if he knew his people as he did. The two then left at dusk, and once more headed north, into Ashenvale.

* * *

After several long hours of traveling in his Cat Form, Laronar decided to arrive in his 'homeland' on the back of Storm. So in tune were they that Laronar was sure he would not fall off his massive bulk, despite not having a saddle.

After traveling through the quiet woods of Ashenvale for several minutes, Storm came to an abrupt halt. Laronar, who had been lost in thought, looked up, ready to change form in an instant. He looked around the clearing they had stopped in, and then looked to Storm. Closing his eyes, he asked the trees and other plants what they saw. For some reason, they ignored his commands, so he instead turned his attention to the nearby animals. They resisted him at first, but since he had spent most of this journey communicating with the stag, bear, bird, rabbit, and other spirits, they eventually told him what he wanted to know.

He was surrounded on all sides by Kaldorei rangers. He held up his hands, and spoke in clear elvish, "I come in peace, sisters. Please do not shoot me." Their cover blown, the Sentinels melted out of the shadows, their bows still strung with arrows.

Their leader, a beautiful female atop a white saber with black stripes, spoke to him. "State your name and your business in Ashenvale, brother, and perhaps we will not shoot you."

Frowning at the seemingly new found distrust of their own kin, Laronar replied, "I am Laronar of...the Wild. I trained under Kota, a Tauren of the Skyhorn Tribe, and was told by Cenarius to seek out Malfurion Stormrage, so that we might complete each other's knowledge of the druidic arts." The ranger's eyes widened slightly, and a smirk reached her lips. A smirk that Laronar recognized, as he lowered his hands.

* * *

"Well well…" Her tone had lost its seriousness, and gained an allure that sent an unfamiliar, but not unpleasant chill down Laronar's spine. The other sentinels looked puzzled as their leader lowered her guard, and even seemed to be _eyeing_ the intruder. "You've certainly…grown, Laronar. I thought you were dead." She rode closer; her saber eyeing Storm much like her rider eyed his.

Laronar patted his friend on the shoulder twice, indicating he could relax, and he did so. The other sentinels had looks between confusion and amusement as Shandris prowled around the newcomer in a circle.

"So I've heard. As you can see though…" He rolled his neck, and, despite his better judgement, flexed, letting his new muscles stand out in the moonlight. "I'm very much alive." His body, he had discovered, was reacting well to his training. Ashamane had told him once that, unlike other druids, who would rely on magic, his main weapon would be his body. As such, he needed to hone it, and hone it he had.

Before the war, the only Kaldorei with any sort of hard muscle to them were soldiers, and evidently the other druids were not as impressive either. Yet. Given that he still lacked a shirt, and was garbed in a kilt not unlike a Tauren's, the display was both obvious and evidently appealing to the eye. He had honestly forgotten he wasn't wearing any kind of shirt, though the sharp eyes of the females surrounding him, eyeing him like a piece of meat, made him remember. He didn't shy away from their gazes, though.

* * *

His back and forth with Shandris brought several laughs from the other riders, as they watched the pair with knowing smirks. She pulled up next to him, far closer than normal, and his bravado evaporated, cheeks darkening as she nudged him. Gone was the rude child with a knack for archery. Like him, she had grown as well. "Come on then…let's bring you to Malfurion."

As they rode through the dark forest, Laronar suddenly remembered how he hated being the center of attention. This wasn't like his childhood sorcery lessons though. This attention was focused on his physical attributes. After spending so long surrounded by males, and usually Tauren at that, being surrounded by females of his own species was new. He'd never noticed how aesthetically pleasing they were when he was younger, but then, he supposed he wouldn't have. The basic lessons of life, including how mating worked, had been one of the many things Kota had first taught him, when he realized his student had sizable gaps in his knowledge that the Tauren had simply considered common sense.

He hoped the gloom of the forest was covering his dark purple cheeks, but since they only grew darker the more he heard the murmured laughing, he doubted that was the case. He made a mental note to find a way to get these emotions under control, but for the moment, enjoyed them.

* * *

As Laronar approached a budding tree just outside the newly built city of Ordil'Aran, he saw the same bearded, antlered elf he had seen the day he became Kota's apprentice. Hands behind his back, Laronar patiently waited for Malfurion to finish speaking to the nine male Kaldorei sitting in a semi-circle in front of him.

Looking up, Malfurion's own amber eyes met Laronar's, and he motioned for him to approach saying, "Novices, this is Laronar, apprentice to the wise Kota Skyhorn, a Tauren druid. He has come to teach us how to take the forms of the Ancients, and with them, help aid in the defense of the world."

Laronar looked at the eight elves, all who were, he guessed, around his age, some older, some younger, and bowed. Malfurion pointed at each of his students and said, "Laronar, this is Fandral Staghelm, Tenaron Stormgrip, Kerlonian Evershade, Melithar Staghelm, Kaldon, Lathorius, Naralex, Arvell, and Ralaar. They will be your students, as will I, for a time."

"I understand," Laronar replied, "That you had things to teach me as well?"

Malfurion smiled, "Yes, we will get to that my friend, but for now, let us begin learning how to shapeshift." Laronar nodded, glancing back at Shandris as he joined the others. She waved, and he did the same, an action not unnoticed by Malfurion, who gestured with one hand and a suddenly stern look, showing he should begin.

"First," Laronar started, raising his voice and clearing his throat, "We contact the Ancients…"

* * *

An hour later, the eleven gathered druids sat in a circle, silently calling out to the spirits of the Cat, Bear, and Storm Crow. Laronar had explained that these spirits had already agreed to help the druids, but Laronar himself sought a different spirit. The Spirit of the Stag. He was hoping to contact Malorne, the stag demigod, and gain the ability to take his form.

So far however, he had received no response. Just like he had on his trip to Ashenvale. Then, out of nowhere, a faint voice spoke.

It was filled with pain, and was irritated at the intrusion to its regeneration. " _Who dares disturb Malorne while he recovers from his grievous wound? Who dares to disturb the White Stag?"_

Laronar responded the same way he did when he last spoke to the stag spirit. _"I am Laronar, of the Wild, I seek permission to take the noble form of the Lord of the Forest, so that I may better defend it from those who would see it harmed."_

Silence followed for a long while; however, a reply finally came. Laronar did not lose his patience once, as he waited. _"You have shown great patience and humility Laronar of the Wild, and your contribution to Malorne's rejuvenation has not been forgotten, but this is a difficult time for the Stag Lord. It is only because the other spirits have spoken so highly of you that we grant your request. We must ask however, that if you do engage in combat, you will switch to another form."_

Panic filled Laronar. Switch forms while shape shifted? Impossible. _"You can do it young druid,"_ the voice responded to his panic, _"it is difficult to switch whilst shifted, but not impossible for one such as you. We will show you how…"_

* * *

The other druids had long since transformed into cats, bears, and crows, while Malfurion had become all three. Only Laronar remained perfectly still, in meditation. Malfurion forbade anyone from distracting him. He had a feeling the young elf was trying something a bit trickier than cats, bears, and crows.

As Malfurion knelt before Laronar, who was sitting cross-legged on the leafy forest floor, the young druid's eyes opened, and the amber orbs, so much like Illidan's, blazed with the raw power of nature. Malfurion jumped back as the young druid started to transform. Antlers sprouted first, from his forehead, his neck elongated, his hands became hooves, as did his bare feet, and Malfurion looked on in surprise as Laronar became a proud stag, whose coat was not unlike that of Malorne's. As white as the Moon herself.

Having seen Malorne fall in battle, the Archdruid felt a flicker of hope for Cenarius' father. Perhaps he still survived in some way. Now fully transformed, Laronar looked directly at Malfurion, and nodded his antlered head, as though he could read his thoughts. A smile appeared on the Archdruid's face as he nodded back.

Laronar then began to change his form again, this time into his favored Cat Form. This caught everyone's attention, as even Malfurion had thought that shifting while in another form was impossible. Clearly, the only limit on the powers of a Druid was one's imagination. This became even more apparent, as the group saw that his Cat Form was unlike theirs. Where they had become sleek, multicolored panthers, his was undoubtedly a Nightsaber, judging by the fangs, but there was more to it. With fur as dark as the night, and those unchanged amber eyes, he looked remarkably like the Ancient to whom he was closest.

Without a word, Malfurion applauded the young druid, as did his peers. The group then broke for supper, and the two brothers, who had the most cause to be interested in the Stag Form, began pestering Laronar about how he had managed to complete that particular transformation.

* * *

As they entered the local inn, Laronar caught the gaze of several Sentinels, and noticed Shandris was among them. Moving his gaze back to the others as if he hadn't seen them, the druid's placed their orders. Laronar was in the midst of trying this 'Moonberry Juice', when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

The others had since stiffened at the new arrival, and Malfurion simply turned his gaze down the bar towards the newcomer. Laronar noticed all of this, recognizing with ease the faint but welcome scent of she who was tapping him, before he turned, and grinned, "Shandris. And here I thought you'd be out looking for more outsiders to shoot."

He felt a small victory at his cheeks refusing to darken, despite her closeness. That changed however, as she leaned on the bar as well. Only a completely inexperienced fool would miss the obvious signs of attraction, but unfortunately, Laronar had not previously had such experience. Females were a total mystery.

"My patrol is covered," she said, smiling, "So I had some free time. Unlike some people, I prefer a warm bed and a roof over my head." Malfurion's ears twitched, and several of the other druids stared with open mouths at Laronar, not Shandris, despite the good-natured jibe.

Still, the reason for their strange behavior eluded him. Had he known why they acted so, he probably would not have said, "I enjoy a warm bed as much as anyone. Though I haven't been assigned one yet…"

As he let the words hang, and slowly realized what they implied, the imposing bulk of Malfurion Stormrage suddenly appeared behind Shandris, and she turned slowly as the two looked up into the burning eyes of the Archdruid. Shandris shrugged, and opened her mouth to speak with an embarrassed smirk. Malfurion's tone brooked no argument as he cut off whatever she had to say. "You should go practice your archery, Shandris." His tone was serious, and as Laronar saw the look in his amber eyes, he felt a chill run up his spine, though it was not a pleasant one. Still, he hoped he simply misread Malfurion's all-too-familiar expression. One he had seen on his father's face only once, when one of the boys in Eldarath had taken a liking to his sister.

* * *

"But I-"

" _Now_ , Shandris." Malfurion spoke with a hard tone, cutting her off.

The Sentinel left without another word, and all eyes turned to Laronar, who kept his expression as neutral as possible. Technically, his ignorance could save him the wrath of the druid whose power had saved the entire world. Technically. Malfurion simply stared at him for a long moment, before he said, "Come."

Laronar heard several deep exhales, and realized he too had been holding his breath. He followed the master druid out to the back of the inn, vaulting over the railing as he had. Once they were far enough away, the Archdruid began to speak, "You have been away from us for a long time, Laronar, and because of this I can expect you to not know certain things. Shandris is like a daughter to me, and my mate, the High Priestess Tyrande, is like a Mother to her. So, when it comes to…romance…you can understand my...hesitation. You are one of us, and yet, are still a stranger."

Laronar nodded, but held his tongue as Malfurion continued, "Now, you may be an honorable Kaldorei, but I do not know that. Tyrande does not know that, and most importantly, Shandris doesn't either. If you intend to pursue her…at the very least, wait a few months. Learn of what our people have become. Understand what we are becoming, and be _very_ certain of what you choose to do in the presence of she who is like a daughter to me."

Laronar responded carefully, choosing his words. "With respect, Archdruid…I do know Shandris…somewhat. We met during the war. I…assume that your mate was the one who healed me when I first arrived amongst the refugees. She pushed us together more than once, and looking back now, I think I can guess why. I am unsure of my intentions at the moment…but at least consult with her, before you assume I lack honor."

* * *

Laronar kept his face passive as he spoke, though he had no idea how. Malfurion turned to eye him again for a long moment, and nodded once. "Hmmm…I shall do as you say. There is a tree by the area we practice meditation, at the top floor you will find the other beds the druids use. You may choose one of them, and tomorrow, we will begin catching you up on your training."

With that, he walked past the younger druid swiftly. Laronar leaned then against a nearby tree. Of course Shandris would have the druid who was supposed to be his master, and a legendary hero at that, as her guardian. Who else would Malfurion Stormrage take on as a daughter, but the one female he'd ever felt a real attraction to?

He sank to the ground, shifting into his Cat Form without even thinking, and melted into the shadows. He decided that it would be better if he found a quiet bush or something to sleep by tonight. He'd had more than enough of his people for one day.


	7. Dream Walking

**Dream Walking**

* * *

After the awkwardness of his arrival faded, Laronar once more found a routine. He spent half the day teaching, half learning, and spent his nights being shown around the new Kaldorei Empire by Shandris. Though calling it an empire was very generous, several cities of marble and various trees had been skillfully created by the fledgling druids, and slowly, the elves recuperated.

What little sleep he did get during this time was either spent in the saddle or under the stars, which was another thing he had to adjust to. In an effort to increase the pace of their training because of the apparent looming demon threat, Malfurion had the druids practice during the day, just as he had under Cenarius.

That it all but kept Shandris and Laronar apart was purely coincidental. Cenarius had trained him by the daylight, and now his students would do the same. Having a Tauren master, it wasn't that big of a switch for Laronar, though he still preferred the night.

* * *

He had asked his fellow druids about any remaining demons, and while hunting rumors of Satyrs kept the newly formed Sentinels busy, those who still remained after the Legion fell hardly seemed to warrant a threat, at least in Laronar's eyes. The story of the war itself, something he had largely missed because he'd been so young, had been enlightening.

The portal that the Highborne had created was closed now though, and without the Well, surely the Satyrs, who he had been told were actually Highborne who'd embraced the demons entirely, could not make another. Not without the Kaldorei noticing. Even though the new 'empire' all but shunned the arcane, they had enough skill to keep wards up for detecting such a thing.

* * *

Time passed, and the young druid managed to juggle his training and his various relationships fairly well. He improved much under Malfurion's strict guidance, and that he had other students to help him along only sped up the process. Soon, it was time for the next step in his training. What that next step would be had been hinted at, but each of his peers felt that their words would not do it justice, and so Laronar had waited. Until now.

"When the dragons gave us Nordrassil, they gave us three gifts," Malfurion reiterated for their assembled group. "The Life Binder ensured our ability to repopulate, Nozdormu gave us our immortality, but Ysera's gift was something else entirely. She bound our very people to her own realm, the Emerald Dream."

He paused, seemingly thinking about how to describe it to one who had not walked it. "The Dream is Azeroth as it was in the beginning. No mortal races, no buildings, entirely untouched, and in some places, unfinished by those who shaped both it, and our world. Those who live within the dream are creatures, from squirrels to dragons, who have passed on. It is a spiritual realm that, for many, acts as a sort of afterlife. The green dragons are the ones who guard it, and Ysera, its mistress, has bid that we druids guard it as well."

* * *

As Malfurion explained how and why druids could and should walk the Emerald Dream, Laronar began to realize that the other's training in this area had been all but halted with his arrival, and the focus had been on learning to shapeshift until now. Though they still spent time practicing with their animal forms in mock combat, there were only a few, like Ralaar and Naralex, who truly enjoyed shapeshifting to the degree Laronar did.

Still, even those two could not match Laronar and Malfurion. It hadn't taken him long to see why the antlered druid was regarded with such esteem. He had all but matched Laronar after only a few months of practice, and their sparring now regularly resulted in stalemates. Their leader was, in a word, a natural.

As the others entered the Dream, Laronar had no trouble falling asleep, and his mood brightened considerably as he realized that if they were to train like this every day, he would be far more awake for his time with Shandris. To the other druids, the fact that he appeared in the dream realm with a grin on his face was owed to its inherent beauty.

While it certainly was majestic, Laronar felt that it was, in some way, wrong. There was something about the realm that even his as yet unrefined senses picked up. Malfurion floated over to him as he glanced around. "What do you think?"

* * *

The area they were in was much as it looked in reality, but there was an ephemeral beauty to it that could, if one looked long enough, entrap one's gaze with it. Still unnerved by what he sensed, Laronar managed to avoid losing his focus. "It's…beautiful really, but…so very different from our own world…it feels…off, somehow." He frowned, trying, and judging by Malfurion's expression, failing, to explain what he sensed. Evidently, the other druid did not sense...whatever was bugging his instincts.

"Your subconscious has likely guided you here before. That may be why it seems strange, yet familiar. Those who live in and guard the Dream are granted many powers from it, and apparently, are even able to transcend death itself. I've yet to see if that's true, though."

Laronar simply nodded, not quite in agreement. It wasn't the familiarity bugging him, it was something…deeper. Something tied to the very realm itself. He decided to follow his instinct then, nodding as Malfurion warned him not to wander too far from them. He didn't intend to, for what he sensed was relatively close.

* * *

He moved through the Dream easily, flying through the green haze as he headed south, and east, towards the coast. Then, he saw a patch of forest that looked uncannily familiar, and as he continued flying eastward, he grinned. Though the city wasn't there, this was, undoubtedly, Eldarath. He kept following his instinct, landing near where, by his best guess, the temple to Elune had stood.

It took a long moment of focus, but eventually, he willed the world to reveal itself to his dream form, and gasped at what he discovered.

The sea did not exist in the Dream, for there, the land was yet whole, and many things that once were, still remained. As he gazed upon reality, he saw quite a different sight. It was, undoubtedly, Eldarath. His home. Nature had begun to reclaim the city, and only the white marble foundations remained after so many decades. This meant that, aside from the temple itself and a few fountains, most of the city had been burned away.

He looked towards the ocean, and that was when what he'd sensed grew clearer. It was...hard to discern what he was sensing. There was almost something malicious about it, but as he reached out to touch it, whatever it was, with his senses, it suddenly vanished entirely, as if it had never existed. He probed the seas carefully, but whatever he'd sensed had utterly disappeared, and the black ocean revealed nothing within its depths.

Somewhat uneasy, he returned to the druids, who were busy studying tree leaves, and how they differed in this realm from their own. Truly fascinating stuff.

* * *

While the Emerald Dream was indeed lovely, and he felt closer to Ashamane here than he ever had on Azeroth, he did not fancy the idea of spending years in this strange realm. Nor did he feel overly fond of it. His fellow druids however, were utterly enamored. From the largest tree to literal blades of grass.

Laronar, for his part, did not see the appeal. He preferred real trees. Real grass. These strange ephemeral copies were lovely, yes, but he knew he'd always find Azeroth's real, natural beauty far more appealing. Malfurion claimed the two realms were connected, and that the Dream's very existence helped foster life upon their planet, but he wasn't entirely convinced.

He awoke with a yawn, before the others. A sign of his eagerness. Once the group departed, Laronar shifted into his Cat Form, and raced off before anyone could really notice. He tracked the scent of the one he sought, and prowled around her silently, until he determined she was, in fact, not busy.

Thus, he pounced at her with the skill of a master, purring all the way, even as he re-took his elven shape, not that Shandris minded. They had often wrestled during what few quiet periods the war had offered, and once she'd challenged him again, claiming he'd no doubt gotten sloppy in his years away, they'd begun 'sparring' with regularity.

Sometimes he initiated, sometimes, she got the drop on him, but it was a nightly ritual, and one he was glad to have. While his actual hand-to-hand skills were indeed rusty, their sparring had brought his skill up considerably. There was a reason Shandris led the Sentinels. Once the spar ended, the rest of the evening was quite enjoyable, as were the ones that followed. Now that he no longer fell asleep so much, he truly saw just how far the Night Elves had come with only a few decades to rebuild. It was still, however, a far cry from what they had been, and signs of the Legion's rampage could be easily seen, if one but looked under the foliage slowly covering the scars they'd left.


	8. Satyrs and Wolves

**Satyrs and Wolves**

* * *

Many long years passed as the druids experimented with taking the forms of all sorts of animals, and practiced their magic while the civilization of the Kaldorei began to regrow, primarily under the watchful eye of Tyrande Whisperwind. There was relative peace among them, but memories of the Legion remained fresh in their minds, and always the elves remembered the consequences of their actions.

More often than not, the painful emotions from the war were focused on a group of Azshara's own Highborne who had fled the capital and, with the aid of Elune herself, survived the Sundering. Despite the turmoil their arcane magic had caused, they remained convinced that it was the path the Kaldorei should continue to embrace.

Laronar himself had been approached by their leader, Dath'remar, for he had gone through the surnames of elves who'd survived the war, and had sought out former Highborne in hiding, hoping to gain more followers. At first, it was easy to sympathize with them, for they had lost much themselves, and carried the blame for starting the war. In reality, he'd been told, they had been forced to comply with Azshara, and her lord advisor Xavius, which was the only reason their people had allowed them to 'rejoin' them in the first place. That hadn't stopped the hatred however, and it was commonplace for them to literally be spat upon when they walked the streets of the new elven cities in broad moonlight.

The druid had flatly denied Dath'remar, for he enjoyed being what he was. He'd given up his heritage long ago, and had no desire to reclaim it, or use it as leverage over others. In Dath'remar's people, he often found aspects of what he'd disliked most about his caste, still somewhat intact. The haughty attitudes, the sense of superiority, even the flamboyant clothing. He wanted none of it, and many the Highborne leader went to had told him much the same. After learning from Dragon Aspects and Ancients as to what the right path was, the majority of the Kaldorei people followed their examples, and had no wish to deviate from the course of redemption. Those like Laronar buried their past, and embraced their future.

Eventually, Dath'remar became convinced that a visceral display of power would convince those who'd denied him to rejoin their people, and to that end, the Highborne pooled their might, and unleashed a mighty storm upon Ashenvale which was arcane in nature. Instead of aweing the elves with their might, the druids frantically tried to calm the enraged winds, and return nature to balance. Eventually, Malfurion himself subdued the storm, and once more, peace reigned. Tensions rose, as many saw the display as an attack on the elves' new home.

With the exception of druids, who used the arcane in conjunction with natural magic, sparingly, using arcane magic by itself in the fashion of a mage was illegal, on pain of death. Unwilling to kill so many of their kin, the Highborne were given naturally crafted ships, and exiled across the sea, to the other half of the sundered continent of Kalimdor. It would be millennia before the two peoples met again.

* * *

Finally, the day came when each of Malfurion's students were considered to be master druids, including Laronar, who had since mastered walking the Emerald Dream. He was one hundred and seventy years of age now, although his body had stopped showing signs of aging not long after he'd arrived in Ashenvale. The Dragon Aspects had not lied when they claimed that Nordrassil would make them retain their immortality. Their promise of survival was evidently granted as well, for in that century long peace, the elves had more children amongst them than ever before. Strangely, Tyrande and Malfurion remained heirless, but nobody commented. Life mates weren't as common anymore in the face of such low numbers, but their affairs were still given privacy.

Each of the former apprentices congratulated the other, and one in particular, Ralaar Fangfire, was determined to convince the reclusive Laronar to celebrate with them, for often after training he would meditate within his Cat Form, and ask the spirits for stories and wisdom, rather than waste time in the inns and taverns his fellow druids frequented after long days of practice and meditation.

That night was special though, and the so-called 'feral druid' soon found himself surrounded by his peers as they made their way to their favorite spot within Ordil'aran. Once he was out of his reclusive shell, the druid who could shape shift as skillfully as Malfurion was actually quite entertaining, a fact that Ralaar and the others who preferred shapeshifting to spells had discovered the first time they'd successfully dragged him out to imbibe in alcoholic beverages. What little Laronar remembered of that night, spent drinking, feasting, and dancing upon tables whilst shifted, would help him in the many wars to come. Though he didn't yet know it, those years spent training would be some of his fondest memories.

* * *

With the word out that the first generation of druidic masters was now finally free to take apprentices, the requests to learn flooded in, as they had after Nordrassil was planted, and now it was the student's turn to understand the hell that was sifting through potential students, searching for the best, as Malfurion had done. Males, females, everyone wanted the power, and prestige, that came with being one of nature's defenders. Soon though, many found that they simply could not handle the lifestyle required. Often, training involved hours of meditation, and Laronar soon began to understand why Malfurion had chosen the students he had.

They had sharp minds and patience, whereas many of their people did not. Many did not even make it to communing with nature itself, but those who did were assigned to a master. Eventually, Malfurion decreed that the druids should be entirely male, as the priestesses of Elune were entirely female. Given that they'd had few females even show interest in truly learning, none of the druids disagreed. Long had the women of their race held superior status. This division of power would balance them, or so Stormrage claimed, and none could find fault with his logic. Sharing power equally was a popular idea. Nobody wanted another Azshara.

Time continued to flow, and six whole centuries passed Laronar by as he trained new druids, adventured with Shandris, and honed his skills. Often he would ask Ashamane, and the other Ancients, how to improve his skill with their forms. Though pulling knowledge from them was like draining water from a stone, what clues he did receive helped tremendously with harmonizing his mind with the mind of the animal within the forms he took.

After seven hundred years since the demonic invasion, Kaldorei society had once more flourished under their new path and the blessings they'd been given. Being among the 'Archdruids' as he and the first generation had begun to be called, came with some measure of fame, and even political sway, in certain cases. Though he was, compared to many of the survivors, still young, Laronar's words carried weight, and he found himself enjoying when people actually listened to what he said. He did not claim to be wise, but he tried to dispense knowledge where he could, and often, his students would name him their Shan'do.

* * *

This was common amongst his fellows as well. Those who had been the first to learn had been ideal to become master druids, and it was a long time before Malfurion himself admitted that he hadn't been convinced Laronar would work with those he'd initially chosen. He was, supposedly, glad that he'd been wrong though. Given the inherently awkward nature of their dynamic, for Shandris' affections had not been forgotten or unnoticed, he took what compliments he could get from the legendary druid.

Shandris herself had been reassigned elsewhere in the budding Kaldorei territories, which spanned most of Kalimdor, often in areas that the Tauren did not inhabit. Though they were not hostile, the bull-men were not overtly friendly either, for they had no qualms about placing the blame for the state of their sundered world entirely on another race. Still, they remained friendly, and traded often, a far cry from how they'd acted when the empire yet stood. Tasked by Tyrande with focusing on training Sentinels, for she had agreed that the demon's return was inevitable, given their nature, Shandris had created a stronghold in which to forge her new warriors off of the coast of the region known as Feralas.

Like the other druids, Laronar had learned to fly early on, and though the flight wasn't terribly long, the distance was far enough for the embers of…whatever they'd had, to cool. It also didn't help that the Sentinels, much like the Sisterhood of Elune, were almost entirely female. Every move he made on his visits to the isle ended up being gossiped back to Shandris, and eventually, she'd 'ordered him to visit her'. The tone and expression of the Sentinel who'd given him that command was unreadable, and he was obliged to obey it, as it came directly from their General, who had the power to draft any Kaldorei, technically.

* * *

Upon arriving on Shandris' island stronghold, he was well aware of the looks he was receiving as he made his way to her quarters, that doubled as her office. He gave a bow as he arrived. "General Feathermoon..."

"Don't 'General Feathermoon' me." She said, already irritated. "I keep hearing of your 'exploits' around my Stronghold, Laronar. It's hard enough getting these women, many of whom are older than me, to listen to my orders. When my lover is breeding the medics behind my back, it gets that much more difficult..."

He could hear the hurt in her voice, though he had no earthly idea of what she was referring to. "I've only ever sold herbs to your medics, Shandris...my heart is yours. You know this."

She had her back to him, looking out the window behind her desk. She was hiding her face, but his sharp nose could smell the salty tears. "I thought I did. But it's become clear that I can't trust what you've told me. This isn't the first time I've gotten such a report. I've ignored them in the past, but I would be a fool to keep doing so. I can no longer afford the distraction our...fraternizing...is causing me. I have an army to build. This is the end of us, Laronar Stormclaw. Do not return to my island."

"I don't know what you've heard, but it's simply not true...I swear to you, by Elune hersel-" Shandris cut him off before he could finish.

* * *

"Swear by the goddess you do not worship, swear by the demigod whose form you take. Swear by my own father if you must, it does not matter. I used to like your...feral insistence, but in embracing savagery, you're tossing aside everything that could make you a respectable Kaldorei...many see you as little more than beast, Laronar..."

Crossing his muscled arms, he raised a brow, despite the fact that her back was yet turned. "And this bothers you? You've never said so before. Elune was not watching out for my mother when a Doomguard speared her through her back. She was not watching my sister when she likely befell a similar fate. She did not come to my father's aid either, when he sacrificed himself so that I might live. Ashamane has always watched me, ever since I found Storm, at least. It's not my fault your Goddess does not take male devotion..."

He saw her fist clench, and he knew he'd made her angry. That was good, for he also knew that anger would keep her from weeping overlong over losing him. He had no idea what fabricated report she'd received, and he found that he did not care. A woman who would trust a rumor over his own word was not a fit mate. He'd been denying their incompatibility for a while, but now was as good a time to end things as there would ever be. "Enough..." She snarled, "You are no longer welcome on my island. Get out."

He did as he was bid, storming from her office, and avoiding making eye contact with the inhabitants of the stronghold as he leapt into the air, and took the form of an owl. He decided then that he'd had more than enough of Sentinels, and women in general, at least for a while, and focused on training his apprentices back home. Given that they were all male, romantic entanglements were all but nonexistent, as his students eventually noticed their master was, quite obviously, drawn to females, and only females.

* * *

Even though his first attempt at finding a mate failed, that didn't stop him from occasional attempts at romance over the long centuries that followed. His mastery of what the druids had nicknamed the 'feral arts' had resulted in a male form that was aesthetically pleasing, and heavily muscled. He was, by far, the most obvious example of what becoming a 'feral druid' could do for one's appearance, and as such, he had no shortage of downright embarrassing offers for coitus. Once the rumors of his 'relationship' with the Sentinel's General going up in flames had reached Ashenvale, such offers only increased.

With no reason to deny them any longer, the relatively young druid quickly learned much about women, though it was mainly physical learning. Their personalities, and rationale, continuously befuddled him, and eventually he gave up trying to make sense of any of it, assuming that when and if he found a mate, it would all simply 'click', as the druids who already had mates had described it, when he'd mentioned his irritation with the fairer sex's seemingly irrational attitudes.

What he would only understand with time, was that many of those early encounters were purely for pleasure, and being that his only experience with such things had been long-term, spanning centuries, he'd often expected them to last longer than a single night. Thus, it came as something of a surprise when the females in question would eventually all but shun him after getting what they'd approached him for.

In those days, it wasn't entirely uncommon for those without mates to bear and raise the offspring of such unions, in the name of repopulating their devastated race, and though he would eventually suspect he himself had managed to father several such children, he never received word of any. Nobody asked where such children came from, and nobody told the children in question of their parentage. For their society, it simply wasn't important. Only with time, would the focus on life mates return. In those days though, repopulating had been a racial imperative.

* * *

As with all times of peace on Azeroth, it was doomed to end with the outbreak of war. It began with strange reports. The Sentinels in Ashenvale reported burning rocks falling from the sky into a nearby valley to the east. The druids who had chosen to venerate the Storm Crow, along with Malfurion and Laronar, set out to investigate these rocks the next day.

All remembered the sight of the dreaded Infernals falling from the sky. Yet, there was no trace of them. Each druid scouted for miles around the valley they had been said to have landed in, but all they found were impact craters. No fire, no footsteps. Malfurion went as far as contacting Cenarius, and although the demigod said he felt no shift in the balance of nature, he warned that dark times were approaching.

Ever one to heed the Ancient's advice, Malfurion mobilized the elven army, what remained of the host that had fought the Legion, alongside the Sentinels and the druids. For a time, it seemed as though the rumors were nothing to worry about. Such meteors had been spied before after all, but this time, the rocks in question had indeed been what the Sentinels had suspected them to be. The green flames had given them away.

The demons first appeared not far from the Raynewood Retreat, and when they were sighted, the elven host once more rushed out to meet them in battle. The enemies they fought turned out to be Satyrs; worse, they were Satyrs who worshiped Xavius, the Highborne responsible for summoning the Legion to Kalimdor in the first place. The Kaldorei who had been advisor to the Queen herself. It was his name they cried as they met the Kaldorei, and it was in his name that they forced the elves to retreat in that first bloody conflict through their mastery of vile magic, and the relentless power of their summoned Infernals.

* * *

It was to the Raynewood Retreat that the elves went once the Satyrs routed them, and it was at Raynewood that Ralaar Fangfire once more tried to convince Malfurion to use what had been dubbed the 'Pack Form' by the few druids who had dared to take the legendary Goldrinn's form.

Like Ralaar and Malfurion, Laronar had also taken it once more, but the pure savagery of the beast within was untamable. Goldrinn had eventually warned each of them that they weren't compatible with his form, but it was Tyrande Whisperwind who, at that very moment, elaborated on why the druids could never control it.

Night Elves were the children of Elune, and Elune and Goldrinn had a rivalry that stretched back far, long before the elve's first empire. She said that, under the full shine of Elune's light, Goldrinn had gone mad with primal rage, refusing to be the noble creature Elune wanted him to be. Under the twin full moons, it was said he had felt like he was being _stared_ at by the Goddess, judged to be little more than an animal, despite his noble demeanor, all because he refused to 'tame' his primal savageness. This had ignited the wolf Ancient's fury, and the resulting feud had lasted millennia.

* * *

Ralaar seemed not to understand what that meant, as he continued to demand the Pack Form be used against the Satyrs, Laronar however understood quickly, for in the area concerning their Moon Goddess, Shandris had educated him thoroughly. The Kaldorei were allegedly the favored children of Elune, who had empowered their race in ways not unlike a Wild God. Her domains were many, and already the burgeoning druids had those who followed Elune as their patron, and were rewarded with a blending of arcane and natural power as a result, rather than her Light. The Kaldorei had always been her people, for as long as any of them could remember. That was why the druids couldn't tame Goldrinn's form.

Elune's essence was imbued in their very race, and her presence was the one thing that brought out the wolf god's rage more than anything else. As long as the druids followed Elune, Goldrinn's form would be impossible to master without falling to madness. The feuds among the Ancients were usually as long-lived as they were. As Laronar thought this over, the others departed Raynewood after a heated exchange he hadn't been listening to. He would always regret not sharing his revelation then, when there might still have been a chance to prevent the coming bloodshed.

After the discussion at Raynewood, a secret assault was mounted against the Satyr stronghold the elven scouts had discovered in a place the Satyrs called Xavian, and a plan was made to assassinate their general. It succeeded, but at a heavy price. Ralaar and his friend Arvell had been forced to use the Pack Form just to escape alive…but their lack of control had cost Tyrande four sentinels, and had wounded Shandris, who had returned with the reformation of the elven army. Laronar had avoided her like the plague, and though he'd felt her eyes on him several times, he ignored her gaze. She had, in his opinion, had her chance. She'd believed foul rumors over his own word.

* * *

Tyrande demanded justice, and Malfurion dealt it by letting the two druids live with their guilt. To Laronar, who had helped Malfurion rescue the others in his Stormcrow form, it was too soft a punishment for someone like Ralaar, who now seemed only to understand violence.

For all his good attributes, Malfurion had a tendency to miss or overlook the flaws in his students. Ever since he had first tried to take Goldrinn's form, without Goldrinn's permission, Ralaar had been growing more and more…feral. Little did any of the other druids know that as they prepared for the next battle in this War of the Satyr, Ralaar Fangfire had darker plans.

His friend Arvell had been killed, in his eyes, because he refused to take the Pack Form, as he had promised Malfurion. While Malfurion and the others mourned the loss of yet another druid, Ralaar and Arvell's lover were creating a weapon that should not have been conceived. They combined a Staff of Elune with an object Ralaar called The Fang of Goldrinn, creating the Scythe of Elune.

It was, at its heart, a good-natured attempt to control that which the Kaldorei could never hope to, but it backfired. Goldrinn's essence refused to be tamed, and the Scythe created the first of the Worgen. Wolf-men, who went beyond the basic Pack Form to become something much, much worse. Powerful, savage hunters who could spread this twisted Form like a plague, or a curse. All they required was a bite.

* * *

At the next major battle with the Satyr army, the druids who had spoken out against Malfurion's banishment of the Pack Form failed to appear…at first. Over the past week they had become the beasts that would come to be known as Worgen, and as they ran through the charging Night Elven host, they ignored them, and tore into the demon's latest fortifications.

Despite the carnage, Laronar was personally impressed by their strength, if not their savagery. As the demons fell though, the beast that was now Ralaar Fangfire attacked Malfurion, and the other wolf men followed. Malfurion routed them single handedly, tying them down with vines that, as druids, they should have been able to rid themselves of easily. Nature refused their call, however, and that proved in many druidic minds that these new monsters were no longer a druidic form, but an abomination.

The druids retreated to the ancient grove of the Moonglade, their last holdout, and it was there that Malfurion declared that the time for testing and experimentation with the druidic powers was over. That from then on, there would be an order and set practices for the druids of the future. Only those who were wise enough to know when to limit their experimentation with nature's forces would be allowed to research them in this new Cenarion Circle. A plan was then devised to rid the world of Ralaar and his beasts, for they had torn through most of western Ashenvale, attacking the demons as well as their own people.

* * *

The one advantage the newly formed Cenarion Circle had on the beasts was the Scythe of Elune, given to Malfurion by its creator, the redeemed Priestess Belysra, who evidently now regretted creating the weapon in the first place. Luckily, she was among sympathetic peers. A meeting with Ralaar was organized, under the pretense of Malfurion receiving punishment for his supposed transgressions.

Once the Archdruid had the Scythe however, it was over. The Worgen were banished to sleep under Daral'nir within the Emerald Dream for all eternity. With the Worgen banished and the demons leaderless and fearful of the untamed savage wolf-elves running wild in the forest, the Kaldorei regrouped and ended the War of the Satyr, shattering the Satyr power structure so effectively that they never truly recovered as a race.

The druids changed quickly after that, and Laronar watched as terms that had once been little more than nicknames became proper 'branches' of what was now called the Druidic Arts. Those like him kept the name Feral Druids, but after the war, their reputation suffered, and compared to the other branches of Balance and Restoration, they received the most limitations. No longer were they to reach out to as many Ancients as possible, hoping to take their form. No longer would they revel in the ferocity and closeness to nature such forms provided.

While Laronar understood the need for such things after Ralaar turned mad, it left those who had mastered the Feral Arts with a sour taste in their maws. What Laronar truly took issue with was the command, from Malfurion himself, to not embrace the 'savage nature' of the Wild Gods. To always keep a line between what was elven, and what was animal.

This, more than anything, crippled the new students seeking to learn. They refused to merge with the mind within the form, and in demanding their individuality, their shapes became lesser. Some, managed to figure out speaking whilst shifted, usually through a magic amulet, or similar item, but this only ended up, in many cases, making the beast within ever more unruly. Many who started on the feral path ended up switching to Balance mastery instead, and the gulf of power between them and the first generations of Feral Druids became wider as what they had once freely taught was focused and diluted into following only a few specific animal totems. Furious at the sudden lack of respect and veneration, many of the Wild Gods refused to share their power at all, something Malfurion took in stride, and ultimately ignored. He was of the opinion that Balance and Healing were more important, and that many of the Wild Gods were fickle at the best of times. If they were to defend the world, they needed reliable allies.

* * *

Laronar, personally, ignored this new directive from the Circle's leader, and often argued with Malfurion over what should and should not be taught. He had more experience with the Ancients than any of them, a fact he often found himself repeating, and he also claimed that blurring the lines of animal and elf did not have to result in abominations like the Worgen. His own form was physical proof that a positive link to the Ancients could be beneficial.

Despite his words, Malfurion's will was iron on this, and Laronar's stubbornness to change resulted in a serious decrease in new students given to him by the druids in charge of such things under the new order. Those he had trained, were watched, and over time, they too eventually bent to Malfurion's crippling edicts. That, more than anything else, was what drove the first wedge between Laronar and his fellow druids.

The new feral students focused primarily on the spirit of the Bear, and named themselves the Druids of the Claw, after the fallen Ursoc's own claws. Since Ursol himself was not all that different from a balance druid, Malfurion was of the opinion that their Bear Form was all the druids would ever really need. Sentinels, he argued, could do far more than those disguised as fierce Nightsabers in the shadows. That, was when Ashamane herself withdrew as well, though Laronar was able to keep her form, even Malfurion found himself unable to become the cat. This too, he took in stride.


	9. The Long Vigil Begins

**The Long Vigil Begins**

* * *

Before many of the druids even realized Ashamane had abandoned the feral druids as well, Malfurion called all of the druids to the Moonglade, and once they were all assembled, Laronar began to understand just how vastly outnumbered his fellow feral druids were, and just how out of place he appeared next to his kin. Each wore respectable robes, engraved with runes meant to draw on and combine arcane and natural magic with ease, but he remained shirtless, in naught but a kilt.

He'd grown a pair of 'spaulders' from the seeds of a herb Kota and he had used for smoking, and with time, had encouraged the leaves upon them to grow both more potent, and harder to break. They made decent armor, and when crushed and smoked, were quite enjoyable. Aside from his shoulders, everything else remained much the same, for he saw no reason to change his attire. This was a time of peace, he didn't need armor. When the peace inevitably ended, for he was realizing it must always at some point end, he would make himself armor as the others had. He expected to be much stronger, and wiser by then though.

As Malfurion addressed the crowd, he announced that the dragon Ysera was calling the druids to guard the dream, as her dragonflight did, and together, they would protect it, and nourish the natural evolution of flora and fauna on Azeroth's sundered surface. They would sleep not briefly, but for months, centuries, even millennia, perhaps. Awakening only when the natural world needed their power. The defense of the forests would be left to the Sentinels, who were now experienced in the ways of war, and would only grow more so during this 'long vigil'.

* * *

Laronar declined the offer to sit in a dirty hovel for millennia, asleep, and instead promised to train new recruits to aid in Azeroth's defense. Malfurion, for once, did not argue the point. He then explained that the feral arts were indeed better suited for guarding the physical world, while the other two branches of druidism were, by far, more suited to protecting the ephemeral dreamscape the Archdruid seemed almost enamored with.

After centuries of not bearing offspring, many had begun to wonder why the most famous couple amongst the night elven race had not yet procreated. It had taken Laronar a while, but once he realized just how often Malfurion visited the Dream, he began to understand. The druid was drawn to that realm like a fly to Nightsaber dung. It consumed his every waking thought, and though the growing distance between his Shan'do and his mate was potentially concerning, it was still entirely their business. Not his.

Laronar sat quietly beside Storm as the majority of the druids flew into the air. Almost as many simply walked to the nearby Barrow Dens within the Moonglade, while the others would spread out, so that not all of them needed to be awakened at once, if trouble arose. The only time that should happen, Malfurion had said during his speech, was if the Legion did indeed return, as so many feared they would.

* * *

In his place, Malfurion left Fandral Staghelm to lead those in charge of training new defenders of the Dream. At first, it seemed Fandral would be much the same as Malfurion, when it came to leadership, but that soon proved to not be the case.

Over the long centuries, Laronar, Naralex, and several other druids had reached out to the Tauren. They remembered the honorable allies who stood with them against the demons, and they'd heard from Laronar that they knew much of druidism. His skill was a credit to the Tauren's techniques.

After the War of the Satyr especially, the newly formed Cenarion Circle had attracted many Tauren, and for a long time, their presence in the Moonglade had not been an issue, for Malfurion Stormrage himself welcomed them to come and learn, or leave, as they pleased. The Moonglade was a haven for all who followed Cenarius. For a long time, nobody seemed to mind.

* * *

Things had changed now, however. Almost immediately after they sensed their Shan'do return to sleep, Fandral made a decree of his own. None of the Tauren druids had gone into the Barrow Dens, for the journey to the Dream, for their race, was extremely difficult. Ysera had tied the elves to it more than anyone had realized.

Fandral claimed that, with the majority of the elves gone, the Tauren, Furbolgs, and other sentient races not tied to Cenarius himself should also return home. Laronar had, by pure instinct, responded with what Malfurion had often said himself, "All who walk the path of nature pay homage to Cenarius. This glade is a haven for his followers. All are welcome."

Remulos, a son of the Forest Lord himself, had nodded in approval, and then offered the invitation for the Tauren to stay. There were more than a few who had been openly shocked by Fandral's statement. It was as if the specter of the elven empire's racism had returned in Fandral. In the face of Laronar and Remulos' words though, they stayed, if a bit awkwardly.

* * *

For twenty eight hundred years, almost three millennia, Laronar stayed slightly separated from his kin as he'd returned to his quiet grove in Stonetalon to enjoy his stash of herb, and train those students crafty enough to follow rumor of a powerful, hermetic druid all the way into the mountains. With each passing year, he saw his people grow more and more insular, thanks in no small part to Fandral. More and more Tauren left the Moonglade, and Naralex, being a healer at heart, began to look for a way to help their shorter-lived allies.

Though he was never public with it, Fandral's influence spread quietly through Nighthaven, a place free of Remulos' presence, as he focused on tending the wilds. Slowly, more and more Tauren left as they decided that loyalty to their tribes outweighed loyalty to the increasingly racist Cenarion Circle. In an effort to mend relations, Naralex planned to study the area known as the Barrens, to see if he could make it more hospitable for the Tauren tribes.

Throughout Kalimdor the elves had spread, and while Ashenvale grew insular, the lands south had not. Kalimdor was a wild, untamed place, and the sentients who lived there got along because they all needed to survive together. Alone, the wilds would end them. The Tauren stayed in the area known as Mashan'she, north of the primarily elven jungles of Feralas. Naralex claimed he would find a way to make the more barren lands to the east more hospitable, and hopefully that would mend relations once their allies had more space to grow and live.

* * *

One of Laronar's students, a 'Druid of the Wild' known as Thal'darah, had gone south into the Stonetalon Mountains. Having mastered all branches of the druidic arts thanks in no small part to the fact that his master had been able to focus on training him, since he had so few students, Thal'darah had established a grove that soon took the place of Nighthaven in the midst of the mountain peaks.

The Tauren were receptive, for they had long traded with the elves of Ashenvale from their mountain-top settlements, primarily for metal-forged weapons. The Harpies were a nuisance to both races, and often, the Sentinels would join the Tauren hunts to cull their numbers. They always came back, though.

Tauren from many tribes came to Thal'darah's Grove, and when Fandral learned of it, he seemed not to care. It was outside of his sphere of influence, and he was not interested in what a couple of mountain-dwelling elves and bull men did together. Laronar, who by pure coincidence lived nearby with his ancient hut and the now heavily flourishing forest he'd created by giving his own energy to it daily, was always proud of his former apprentice. If he was being honest, Thal'darah had been the kind of student who excelled because _he_ put in the effort. His own instruction had been minimal. Some students, he'd found, simply excelled by themselves.

* * *

By this point, Laronar's student count had almost vanished entirely, but he didn't mind. His little grove had exploded into a teeming forest, and he found that he enjoyed hunting within it. Sometimes, he would leap through the branches just for sport. They way everything had grown made traversing them a viable option while hunting. They were also strong enough to support his cat form's weight.

It was as he was enjoying another moonless night of sport that he sensed newcomers in his forest. The Tauren nearby sometimes hunted here, but as he usually stalked them just out of their sight, giving them only glimpses of his form before roaring at them and sending them fleeing in fear. They'd come to believe the forest was haunted by some kind of massive ghost panther. For some reason, Ashamane had found that incredibly amusing.

Thal'darah, who had passed this knowledge on to his old master with amusement in his tone, had gone on to explain that the tribe's new custom would be to avoid that forest, despite the large quantity of food within. They did not want to disturb a spirit. That had left the older druid chuckling for a good five minutes. In truth, he had trained several druids over the years, and the tribes sometimes welcomed him for a smoke session during which they traded stories, and plied him for wisdom. It was mainly their 'brave hunters' the druid sent fleeing, for too often the mortals took more than they needed.

* * *

The intruders this time, however, were a pair of Sentinels, judging by their soft steps, and tensed, but well-curved bodies. As they moved deeper into the forest, he stalked towards them, and both immediately halted. They could sense he was nearby. They had potential. He circled behind them, and dropped to the ground. The elder of the pair, and the more attractive, at least to his eyes, turned, and gasped, before dropping to a knee.

The massive saber-toothed panther paused, eyeing the two. Usually he just chased other elves off. He had no interest in being forced to dream. These moved with more purpose, however. He approached the kneeling pair, for the younger of the two, face yet unmarked, had also knelt. Laronar eyed the pair of azure-haired heads, and then carved a symbol into the ground beneath them with a single claw. A crescent moon, and a small circle resting in its curve.

The elder saw it, and smiled. "You startled us, elder." She rose as he did, the natural magic of the world itself remaking him into his first form, that of an elf. He'd studied the healing arts between nightly hunts while he'd lived this hermetic existence, and this had only helped with his physical body. What scars there were, had vanished, leaving the heavily muscled, and as always, shirtless, abdomen of the elf open to the cold night air, unblemished. His skin tended to almost sparkle in the moonlight, and some elves yet remembered what caste that meant he was tied to. Most druids however, tended to ignore things like skin tone entirely. Their surviving remnant of the old empire had mixed many bloodlines, and many shades were common to the elves of Ashenvale.

* * *

He hid his amusement as the younger one just stared, obviously, at the ultimate example of Kaldorei masculinity, something that was rather rare, now the druids were asleep. The elder, who had to be her sister now that he saw and compared their features, appeared immune to his natural charisma. Potential indeed. "Why have you sought me out, sisters?"

The younger one spoke up, eyes refocusing as the druid's soft, unused baritone cut through the surrounding din of the forest. "Shan'do Stormrage has requested your aid, Archdruid."

Laronar blinked. "Malfurion? He's actually awake?" He frowned. Nothing, not even his lovely mate, could draw that druid from the dream realm. Especially once he was in it. It had an almost possessive hold over him, but whenever the subject was broached he would simply insist that they too would feel the call to dream in time. Such was Ysera's blessing.

They both seemed surprised at how casually he referred to literally the most iconic Kaldorei alive, except for perhaps his mate or his brother. Laronar hardly noticed. After centuries of studying with him, Laronar liked to think he knew the famed druid fairly well. "Tell him I am on my way. My strength is his." He bowed, and the two Sentinels exited the woods, mounted up again, and began racing back towards the shadowed boughs of Ashenvale in the distance.

* * *

Laronar took his night colored owl form, and flew to the highest peak near his tiny little cabin. His forest was, by comparison to Ashenvale, little more than a grove. But he was rather fond of it. As he landed, his eyes moved north, as they did every night when he was drawn up here. Looming over the shadowy forest was Hyjal, by far the largest mountain on the planet, supporting the largest tree. He was under no illusions as to why his grove, and the planet, flourished. He'd seen the world's regrowth as it happened.

Millennia later, the scars of the ancient war were mostly reclaimed by nature, invisible to the eye…if one avoided the eastern coast. Many of Kalimdor's natives did. Truthfully, he was only a few hours from Ashenvale. Less, if he flew. Normally he'd take Storm, but it had become apparent that the grove Laronar loved so much was only big enough to handle one large predator's appetite.

Storm hadn't minded, though. In these eons of peace, the Sentinels were using him to father strong, healthy mounts out of Nighthaven. It was rare to find a Nightsaber male that was so…dominant. He understood why there were so few naturally. Their libido was practically insatiable, and the number of powerful females was large. In the wild, he would've eventually run into one he couldn't subdue, and likely ended up slain. Shandris had claimed that it helped with preparing the Sentinel Army though, and thus he'd allowed it, once he'd heard that Storm was no longer prowling the Moonglade. He knew Shandris visited his cat's stable often enough, but he'd avoided crossing her path for millennia.

* * *

By now she'd figured out whose word she could trust, and whose she could not. Evidently, from what little gossip he received these days, there had even been an altercation when she found out just how many lies her top lieutenant had spun. She'd tried finding him several times, and had succeeded, only to find the aged elf was a far cry from the naïve druid with a thing for cats she'd originally fallen for. The Laronar she knew had been replaced by a 'wisdom spouting pacifist who looked at plants all day'. Or so she'd termed his current studies, before leaving in a huff of irritation and lowered expectations.

He hadn't minded much, as he'd finally found inner peace. His cat form was born to the shadow, but he enjoyed healing just as much as hunting. That, more than anything, was what had kept him from flying off to join Malfurion immediately. Someone had to watch this forest. The animals had come to trust him as they would a Keeper, bringing those who were injured to his hut. The fact that he still needed to hunt for food was a testament to his healing skills. Between drying meat, and picking food from the forest itself, his food stores were fine. His role in this little hermit's paradise was culling the old to make way for the new. Ashamane had taught him well of her own place in nature's cycle, and it was one that he maintained where he could.

He gave the owl equivalent of a sigh, and flapped back down towards his home, shifting as he landed. Normally he liked sleeping in his owl form, as the Owl Spirit was rather clever, and would often toss him a riddle to gnaw on at seemingly random times. The wise spirit was one of the main reasons he'd begun to prefer the owl's shape more. That wouldn't be the case tonight, though.

* * *

A genuine Grove Keeper, a child of Cenarius, was waiting for him when he returned. He bowed low, and let the ancient being speak. "I will tend to your forest in your absence. You have given much to the land. It will not forget this gift, I promise you. Now go, Archdruid. Stormrage needs you. All of you."

Laronar raised a brow, "All? All of us? For what?"

The jade skinned face formed a smirk. "Ask him yourself, once you arrive."

It took a while to gather what he might need. If all the druids were awake, that meant something big was happening. Legion-returning big. War of the Satyr big. He frowned at the leather armor he'd been all but ordered to wear during the last war. He truly despised it. All it had ultimately done was limit his cat form's movement. Fighting with it had been like fighting in soggy robes. Moreover, he'd utterly failed to maintain it. Millennia of 'out of sight, out of mind' had caused the metal holding it all together to rust.

As the jerkin fell apart into its base pieces from a single touch, Laronar let them fall. "Forget this…" he muttered. After speaking with, growing, and studying plant life for so long, he was reasonably sure he could craft a decent, comfortable set of tree bark armor to go with his leafy shoulders. Of course, if he was using bark for armor, only one tree would do.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, after arriving at Nordrassil, Laronar found that many druids had the same idea he did. Armor made of the World Tree's bark. He almost hadn't found enough to safely pry from the base, but he managed to get enough for a pair of gauntlets. Crafting them had been relatively simple. Getting them blessed by a Keeper, so they didn't shatter in seconds, would be the truly difficult part. Such items were not lightly created.

Hyjal was packed with druids now, on every slope, in every branch. He knew they were numerous, but he hadn't realized just how many thousands had actually finished the training. After one embarrassing greeting to a former student who evidently wanted nothing to do with his bare-chested master, Laronar stopped looking for the others. He'd almost forgotten in those long years. Being around so many druids again had been a harsh reminder of exactly where the Feral Arts were on their collective totem pole.

Many had done as he had, and shifted their fields of study. Though where he had done so more out of altruism, he found many others had simply abandoned the feral path in favor of far easier and more familiar spellcasting. It was hard to forget sometimes, that many of these elves had once reveled in mana, and used it. It wasn't all that surprising that his race had gravitated to the closest thing to a 'mage' the druidic arts could create. Nor was it surprising, he realized, that he'd saved the study of Balance magic for last. He'd never much cared for damaging spells, and indeed, even using ones fueled by nature and mana alike was too similar, for him at least, to tossing fireballs. It always brought up memories best left buried.

* * *

The low rumble of the Horn of Cenarius rang throughout the din under Nordrassil's roots, and the gathered druids slowly quieted as their Shan'do made his appearance. The horns were more majestic, the beard was worthy of yet more envy, and after a closer look, it seemed the druid had awakened recently. He still had serious bedhead, but then, who wouldn't after almost three millennia of sleeping in the dirt?

"Friends, students, druids of the Circle! Attend your ears. I've been informed that our own Fandral Staghelm has done something most disturbing." As Malfurion paused, the gathered druids murmured softly. Laronar tried not to grin, and failed. It was about time that pompous ass made a misstep. If Malfurion was awake, it had to be a big one. "In the icy lands to the north, a place the denizens have apparently named 'Northrend', he has planted branches of our beloved Nordrassil, and crafted new World Trees."

The murmurs picked up in intensity as the elder's eyes went wide, and the students and younger druids began questioning why such a thing warranted a gathering. Many were hushed, but Malfurion continued on regardless, and answered many of their questions as he did. "By doing this, Fandral has exposed the Dream to corruption. This new tree does not have the Dragon Aspect's blessing, and without it, I fear those northern lands will corrupt it. Already, word of war between the local nymphs and peaceful denizens of the continent has reached us. We are going to investigate, and if necessary, bring this tree down. Ysera has decreed it."

* * *

"We will fly to Northrend! Together!" The Archdruid raised a fist that Laronar noticed had metal claws coming slightly over the knuckles of his hand. He didn't grasp why Malfurion would need such things, as he could easily shift portions of his body to make something as simple as claws. Then, he remembered. Ashamane still felt slighted by the Archdruid's lack of respect. Evidently, she had not given use of her form back to the Circle over the long years he'd been in his forest. It was a saddening thought, but the reality of the bear form's popularity could not be denied.

He blinked then, as he noticed druids around him taking on various bird forms, and ascending into the sky. Malfurion was at their head, in the form of a massive Storm Crow, wings alight with faint sparks of electricity as he flew higher and higher. Laronar joined the others, opting for his owl form. While Storm Crows were useful, iconic even, he knew owls were quite good at surviving in the cold.

The massive horde of birds drew attention as they flew over Northrend's mostly unpopulated lands, east along the coast. The whole trip lasted several long days, but as they entered the Grizzly Hills, they each saw what Fandral had wrought on the horizon. At first, it seemed a majestic sight, but then, Laronar spied the base of the large tree. Large figures that resembled Tauren were clashing ferociously with blue skinned nymphs, but something was off.

* * *

After seeing his share of war, he knew what a battle looked like from the air. Often, he'd been ordered into the air to find leader types amongst the enemy, and then land, stalk towards them, and take them out. The participants of this war did not fight like soldiers. They fought like animals, with little to no regard for strategy, weapons, or tactics. It was bloody, senseless chaos.

Then, Malfurion reminded them all why the legends spoke so highly of his skills. He had shifted his form back, but feathers remained along his arms, and he used them as he glided down through the stormy sky, thousands of birds behind him, hands alight with the magic of the world as he commanded massive roots to rise up, and bind the fighters in place. _All_ of them.

With little more than whisper, and while falling thousands of feet in the air, he'd turned the massive tree's base into a painful looking bramble. Shifting back, he led the druids in a large circle around the tree, and as he flew ahead of them the bramble he'd created followed him. He ensnared those who had been brawling out of his sight, behind the tree's base as he circled the tree.

* * *

After three long circles, he finally brought the horde of druids down slightly to the north of the massive tree, towards a carving of a familiar looking bear head. Just outside of it, he spied what Malfurion had likely already seen. Several elves, no doubt whoever Fandral had enlisted for aid in this endeavor to plant more World Trees.

In front of the small group of elves was a massive, shimmering bear and Laronar knew, as he'd spoken with Ursoc before, that this was the Ancient himself. Or at least, a manifestation. Evidently, death was not permanent for those who tied themselves to the Dream. The bear made a dismissive gesture with his paw, and then nodded up at the massive horde of flying druids.

Now that they were closer, and indeed many had already landed, Laronar could see the expression on Fandral's face. That alone, was worth the three days of straight flying in freezing winds. He found a perch of his own, close enough to hear Malfurion as the Archdruid approached, and bowed before Ursoc. The bear nodded once, but said nothing. The furious amber orbs shifted to Fandral, and the Archdruid's tone didn't hide his rage. "Fandral Staghelm, you will answer me! What have you wrought!? More importantly…why?"


	10. The Broken Crown

**The Broken Crown**

* * *

Fandral's excuses for his transgression were weak, at first, but after several minutes of being berated by Malfurion, he finally snapped back, irritated, and explained himself in full. A foul substance, a metal of a dark nature, had been discovered growing not only on this northernmost continent, but on others as well. Even in Kalimdor. Against all advisory, what little there had been, Fandral had taken branches of Nordrassil, and planted them atop the foul mineral, in an effort to halt this corruption. At first, it seemed his tactic worked well, but the largest branch, now named Andrassil, had fallen to corruption, as it was on the largest deposit of the foul metal that Fandral and his ilk had discovered.

The resulting madness in the natural wildlife around the massive tree was evidence of this corruption, and after a brief council with the bear Ancient, it was decided. Andrassil needed to fall, and the druids would be the ones to fell it. It was, after all, their mistake to correct. Once the horde of elves had gathered round the corrupted tree, amidst the bramble Malfurion had created, still full of angry, lashing creatures driven mad with senseless rage, they drew on their collective knowledge of spellcasting, and for the first time since their empire fell, wove a spell that was grand, and primarily arcane in nature.

Their natural magic enhanced the damaging nature of what they wrought, and once the outer layer of the tree had been broken, the druids to the west, guided by Malfurion, struck the final blow, and guided the tree down towards them. Thankfully, there were none who were caught under Andrassil's massive trunk, though the entirety of Northrend shook with the force of the crash.

* * *

There was no celebration once the tree was felled, no cheers, no admiration at what they had, as a united Circle, accomplished. The faces of the entirely male horde were grim, their eyes, now primarily amber, filled with sorrow.

Malfurion addressed them only once, from the edge of a broken piece of Andrassil's bark, on the now felled trunk. "This debacle should be considered a lesson. Let us never forget the danger of corruption Nordrassil's scions may suffer from without proper blessings from the Aspects. This monument to arrogance and failure shall forever be known, from this day forth, as Vordrassil. Let all druids who look upon it remember what we have been forced to do this day." Despite his words, many would soon endeavor to forget Vordrassil altogether. Breaking such a promising World Tree had been disheartening, and the general unspoken agreement was to simply not mention it.

With that, he left the druids to ponder his words, and it was not long after before word spread. Shan'do Stormrage was returning to the Moonglade. Most of the druids followed suit, though some stayed to explore Northrend, and heal the Nymphs and Taunka who had gone mad. With the felling of the tree, whatever power had caused the madness had faded, hopefully for good.

* * *

Laronar was among those who departed first from the site of the Broken Crown, and was surprised, upon landing in Nighthaven, to learn that Malfurion wished to see him. He tried to remember if he'd done anything in particular of late that might have earned him the Archdruid's wrath, for most of their 'recent' conversations had been stern lectures about how often he spent time as a cat, and how dangerous 'experimenting' with Ashamane's form was, but nothing came to mind. He found the Archdruid in his barrow den, already preparing to return to the Dream, or so it seemed.

He gave a saddened smile and a nod as Laronar entered, as shirtless as ever, though this time clad with 'pauldrons' made of tough, durable leaves, a sign of how skilled he'd become at tending to nature itself. "Laronar Stormclaw. It has been quite some time since we last spoke. Come. Sit. We have much to speak of."

Laronar did as he was bid, and the Archdruid continued, "First, I wish to apologize for the tone of our last conversation…you were right, in many ways, as I learned from Ashamane herself, within the Dream. I have tried to convince her to yet share her form, but she remains stubborn in her prideful refusal. I was hoping you might sway her decision, if only for the future druids who decide to learn the Feral Arts."

Laronar raised a brow. "I was under the impression the Feral Arts were being phased out. Most druids these days focus on healing, and spell tossing."

Malfurion chuckled. "This is true, but again I must ask your forgiveness for my previous short-sightedness. I was focused too much on the Dream, and did not take into account the importance of having druids like yourself. Your patron informed me of exactly how effective you and your fellows were during the War of the Satyr. You took down many leaders that otherwise would have eluded our efforts to remove them from command. Even the Sentinels were impressed. I was...hasty, in my dismissal of your skills. I am sorry."

* * *

Laronar's gaze shifted away from the other druid at that. He had a feeling he knew to which Sentinel Malfurion was referring, but the last thing he wanted was thoughts of Shandris distracting him in the presence of one who was all but her father. "I…I am glad you have realized the importance the Feral Arts play…nevertheless, I know Ashamane. She is proud, and she is quite furious with you for suggesting her form is lesser than a stealthy Sentinel…"

Malfurion held up a hand. "I am aware. She explained as much, and I apologized, but she continued to refuse me the use of her form. Thus, I have a compromise that, I hope, she will be amenable to." He gestured to the nearby dirt, and a small root rose from it, hardening into a stick. He snapped it, and then began drawing in the dirt. Soon, there was a passable recreation of Azeroth between them, with Kalimdor, Northrend, and the as-yet unnamed and relatively unexplored eastern continent that the elves were content to not bother with, as that was where the Highborne had traveled to.

"Consider our world, sundered as it is," Malfurion said, as he created a facsimile of the Maelstrom that was rumored to yet swirl about where the Well of Eternity had once existed. "Over the past several thousand years, since the War of the Ancients, the area around what was once Suramar has drifted east, pulled by the powerful waves of the Maelstrom. This area, known to some as the Broken Isles, is actually home to a powerful coalition of Tauren. You recall Huln Highmountain, yes?"

Laronar nodded. "My mentor, Kota, was of the Skyhorn, one of the tribes who lived on Highmountain…but I was under the impression it had sunk, like so much else, beneath the waves."

* * *

Malfurion shook his head. "I have been told that this is not the case, by Cenarius himself. His own grove yet exists there, as do, so he says, some Kaldorei who have become powerful druids in their own right. They reside in a land called Val'sharah. They even have a World Tree." Laronar's eyes went wide, and the other druid smirked at the reaction. "What they need, is teachers, and I am told that there are many on the isles who have chosen to follow Ashamane, once they recovered her fangs, and heard her voice through them. I offer this, to appease her damaged pride: the druids of the isles may study the Feral Arts to their greatest depths, in a safe and relatively isolated environment. That way, should we have another Worgen disaster, it will not infect the whole of our people. I wish you to be the teacher in charge of training these new Feral Druids."

Laronar's mouth was agape now, though he managed to shut it once the Archdruid finished speaking. "You would trust me with such an important task? Me alone?"

Malfurion nodded. "Thaon Moonclaw shall join you, as he is the only other druid I know of yet able to take on Ashamane's form, and your patron chose him herself. I may send some others to you, should they need a lesson in control, but there is another reason I'm picking you. Since the day you showed us these techniques, you have displayed an immunity to losing yourself to the forms you take that other druids simply do not possess. I have seen you stay in your cat shape for days on end, and return to yourself as if you'd spent five minutes. We need more like you, if I'm honest."

* * *

At that, Laronar chuckled. "Is that so? Well, I would be willing to share the secret, if you're that curious." Malfurion gestured for him to continue, and he had that look he got when something genuinely piqued his interest. Laronar shrugged. "The secret is actually quite simple. The Tauren Shamans, as you know, revere the spirits of the elemental planes of fire, air, water, and earth, however, there is a fifth they pay homage to, which is by far the strongest, and most mysterious. Only their strongest Shaman dare to call upon it, and only in times of great need."

Malfurion raised a brow. "I take it your mentor taught you of this?"

Laronar nodded. "He said that this spirit, element, or force, whatever you want to call it, was what empowered the Wild Gods, seemingly at random, or so he believed. I discovered rather recently that with the proper rituals, druids might also contact this spirit. While I cannot think of how it would apply to our other branches, for Feral Druids, I believe communing with this spirit, or at least an aspect of it, should be something we have each student do. Contact alone is enough to understand the nature of the minds we share whilst shapeshifted. I myself was able to bond more wholly with Ashamane's after I tried this ritual. I imagine with time; the closeness with each spirit will cause changes that will eventually become more…prominent, in our elven forms. Not long after Ashamane had me master this in my secluded grove, my…feline characteristics were greatly enhanced, as was my Cat Form."

He bared his fang-like incisors for the Archdruid, who eyed them from where he sat with genuine curiosity. "I would not lightly contact this spirit, however…it is a vastly powerful force, and that contact alone can be…overwhelming. Without a patron's guidance, and intense focus, you risk losing yourself to the power of the form you're contacting. If successful though, the power one attains is…impressive, to say the least, though I've yet to test it on a true enemy."

Malfurion was in the process of stroking his beard, which now dangled down to the bottom of his neck. "An interesting discovery…I have often remarked at how similar the Tauren Shaman are to us, they call upon nature as we do…though not as easily. I shall endeavor to speak with this spirit…when I have a moment. Perhaps I can find a way to grant our fellow druids a more…permanent method of retaining their forms, one not subject to the whims of a Wild God."

* * *

Laronar arched a brow. "You'd go over Ashamane's head? I imagine she'd like that even less…"

Malfurion shook his head. "Not quite…though I would hope whatever sentience this force possesses might be able to convince her to let go her grudge…with the other druids at least, if not myself. For the good of the world."

Laronar shrugged. "I will speak to her as well…let me try that first, perhaps, before incurring more of her wrath." He glanced down at the map Malfurion had traced. "Did they really find a piece of Ashamane herself?"

Malfurion nodded. "She mentioned that if I wanted to start earning her trust again, I should send you and Thaon to the isles. Hopefully, the freedom to explore her form as you all wish, with limited restriction, will ease her anger at my poorly chosen words."

Laronar tilted his head, eyes still on the faint isles the other druid traced. "And where are we to stay while we train with this 'limited restriction'?"

Malfurion nodded. "I forget, you do not walk the Dream as often as you should. There is a place within Val'sharah, not far from Cenarius' Grove, where the Dream and Azeroth's border grows thin. It is a small grove, but one of great import, and one we must defend from the mortal side of Azeroth. Ysera and her dragons thoroughly defend the portal from within the Dream itself. We must guard it well from the outside."

Laronar raised a brow. "There's a physical portal to the Dream from this grove? I thought that was impossible."

"In most places, yes," Malfurion said, nodding, "But in this area, and apparently also in the areas where Fandral placed the other branches of Nordrassil, physical passage to the Dream is possible. I figured you would like this, as you have always been reluctant to part from your body. Now, you may walk the Dream, and retain the physical skills you value."

Laronar shrugged. "I like this body. I put a lot of effort into making it a weapon sharp enough for demon slaying. If what you say is true, I will endeavor to study in the Dream, and defend it, as I know you wish me to."

* * *

Malfurion nodded, then, and rose. Laronar did the same, sensing their meeting was over. "Thaon has already departed. I hope that you and he will be able to guide our estranged kin on the isles without coming into conflict."

Laronar smirked. "Is he still sore that I bested him in that hunting contest we had, what, millennia ago now? Do not worry, Shan'do. I'm sure the isles are big enough for two master predators. We will endeavor to create students adept at using Ashamane's form."

"I will send novices with an interest to you as well. Train them, and those you find upon the isles. When they are ready, send them through the Dreamway, to Feralas. From there, they should be able to find their way home. Good luck, Laronar." The Archdruid bowed, and Laronar bowed in return, then left the barrow. With physical travel now possible in the Dream, he had an idea of how he might bring Storm with him across an ocean.

The large saber cat had fathered many, many kittens in his long years spent in Nighthaven, Ashenvale, and even Feralas. Every few years, Shandris would call on him to make the rounds to the Sentinel's viable females, much to the irritation of his master, who could do little to stop the libido of the eager Stormsaber, or the stubborn General, who definitely outranked him. He had no doubt that what was left of Suramar would also need Nightsabers, and Storm's harem would likely go far in repopulating the area.

* * *

They traveled together as a small pack south to Feralas, and had little issue finding the Dream Bough. In a few short years it had grown well above the already towering trees of the jungle. The group made their way through the portal, after a brief conversation with the dragon who guarded it, and found themselves inside the Dream itself.

The Dreamway was lovely, easily one of the most aesthetically pleasing places Laronar had seen on his brief forays into the ephemeral realm. He felt Ashamane's presence then, and knew, by instinct, which portal led to the grove they were seeking. Storm wanted to linger, but Laronar kept his friend focused. It was not yet their time to reside in this realm, nor did he think either of them was strong enough to persist here after death, as some druids and other creatures had managed to do. That would require yet more training.

The grove they came upon after exiting the Dream was a sleepy little settlement, and seemed to barely differ from the Dream they'd just left. One look at the sky confirmed what Laronar suspected. They were indeed in another part of the world, under a sky and series of stars he hadn't seen for millennia. They weren't in the exact positions they'd been in during the War of the Ancients, but he supposed that was due to the slow-moving nature of this broken land. Even as he stood there, he could feel it shifting slowly, pulled toward the inescapable maw of the Maelstrom. It would be many millennia yet before it was all pulled under, though. Hopefully by then, they would have a way to keep their shattered land above the dark waves.

* * *

Laronar let the cats do as they pleased, and they wasted no time in sauntering off into the trees and brush south of the glade. Finding a home in a place this forested would be easy for them. Laronar looked around then, and eventually spotted a shrine in the centermost area of the few buildings nearby. Within were carved statues representing each branch of the druidic arts, and the feral carving appeared to still be in the process of being made.

Among the statues were several elves. Laronar recognized Thaon Moonclaw easily enough, in mid conversation with the others. They had been friendly rivals, as each had begun practicing with Ashamane's form in the years immediately following the War of the Ancients. Thaon was, to Laronar's knowledge, the only other Feral Druid that could claim mastery over their patron's shape, enough to rival his own. Laronar couldn't argue with that, for Ashamane herself had told him she favored him as well, after his heroics during the War of the Ancients, and an incident involving a newly turned Satyr.

He was shirtless, dressed much like Laronar, though he seemed to be wearing an outfit more suited for war than teaching. Leather straps criss-crossed his own impressively muscled torso, and his kilt had apparently been blessed by an Ancient, or several, for Laronar could sense the latent power in it from where he stood, some feet away.

* * *

Thaon had been the only other Feral Druid who had, in Laronar's opinion, mastered the Feral Arts as thoroughly as he had, if not more so. His skills had made him a bit arrogant however, and that was often how Laronar had managed to best him when he yet wished to challenge him in contests with their forms. Smirking as he recalled those challenges, most of which he'd claimed victory in, he made his way toward the druid.

He was speaking to several others, and as Laronar approached, the group's eyes shifted to him. He fidgeted, awkwardly, and then bowed. "Shan'do Stormrage has requested that I join you in these sundered lands, to teach and advance the Circle's understanding of the Feral Arts…in safety."

Another druid, one he took to be the leader, if not the primary tender of this grove, returned his bow. Laronar immediately liked him, but not because he was the first to show proper respect, it was more because he had a similar pair of shoulder pads to his own, though the leaves were gold. The others, save for the scowling Thaon, took a cue from the first druid, and bowed as well. "You are welcome here, Laronar Stormclaw. Perhaps now, Ashamane's followers will be able to begin. She has kept them from advancing their knowledge, even after Thaon arrived, to wait for you. Normally I would give introductions, but the Ancient's words were urgent. She wishes all of you to meet at the sight of her fall, before her Fangs."

* * *

Laronar nodded at the druid's words, and then at Thaon, who wordlessly turned, and headed eastward. As they left the grove proper, Laronar immediately felt it. The presence of his favored patron, stronger than it had ever been before.

"Control yourself…you're purring…" Thaon muttered, irritated, before taking the form of their patron, and dashing through the brush. Laronar was right behind him, and he heard the soft growl as Thaon's eyes fell on his form. It had always resembled Ashamane more than his, black fur where he had purple, a mane as black as their patron's, but now he had gained size as well, though he was still only half as large as Storm.

Thaon's, for his part, had a mane just as impressive, though his fur was light purple and white, and covered with stripes. He stuck out more than Laronar had, a fact the druid often suggested was the reason he was able to best his former student when it came to stealth. In the night, Laronar's form had a tendency to meld with the darkness. The two massive cats, for Thaon's own form was only slightly smaller than Laronar's, soon realized they were racing.

They bounded through woods and brush, startling several elves who appeared to live in this wild forest in small clusters, until they came to a river. A quick glance told Laronar all he needed, his destination was a raised mound of earth, surrounded on two sides by water, and one by cliff. There was only one path up, and it would require crossing the water to reach. Neither wasted a moment to pause, as they skillfully leapt across the few rocks that broke the river's current without touching the water, a stipulation of many of their past races.

* * *

They turned left up the slope that seemed to have been trod quite a bit, making a dirt path of sorts, and the black cat roared as their pace slowed on the hill's upward slant. Thaon roared as well, as he knew what his mentor was doing. Often Ashamane rewarded their roars with an increase to speed, but the brief interval between them had been enough for Laronar to pull ahead, slightly, enough to reach their destination first.

He leapt over a small crowd of druids, who were gathered before a pedestal of sorts, Thaon close behind him. Laronar resumed his natural shape as he landed, smirking at his former student who, as he too dropped the form, was grinning, despite his near loss. Laronar chuckled. "You're getting quite fast, despite your old age, Thaon."

The other druid snorted. "Not fast enough, apparently…" One of the novices from the small crowd came forward then, and coughed. Thaon sighed, and gestured at the impatient novice. "Laronar Stormclaw, meet our new students."

The novice who stepped forward bowed as he spoke. "It is an honor to meet Ashamane's Chosen. We have heard much of your skills, master. I am Delandros Shim- hey! Are you even listening?" The novice had tilted his eyes up to the supposed master druid, only to find that their shirtless, green haired mentor-to-be was focused on what lay upon the pedestal, and not him.

* * *

Laronar held up a hand. "A moment. She speaks…" The younger druid fell silent immediately. Ashamane was indeed speaking, and a quick glance at Thaon told him that he was hearing her words as well.

 _"Take up my Fangs."_

Over and over it repeated in their minds, and at the same time, the two druids reached for them, each coming away with one. A low, rumbling, yet undeniably feminine chuckle echoed through the forested area, and the pair of fangs glowed a deep emerald green that surrounded the two druids, and coalesced behind them into the undeniable form of Ashamane. She was lying upon the fertile grass, and as she appeared, shimmering yellow flowers popped up around her.

Her voice reached all of them then. _"At last…you are all here."_ The Ancient's knowing, amber eyes flared as her paws kneaded the ground before her in, what Laronar sensed, was anticipation. _"Now, we may begin."_


	11. The Fangs of Ashamane

**The Fangs of Ashamane**

* * *

Laronar and Thaon knelt, as did their new students, and the Ancient panther rose above all of them, with what almost looked like a smirk upon her visage. _"It seems we've a small problem, my loyal kittens. Two of you are worthy of baring my Fangs, but there can be only one Alpha. How shall we resolve this issue? Any thoughts?"_

Laronar glanced at Thaon who, like him, was the only one with his eyes upon the Ancient. He arched a brow at Ashamane then, and the panther winked at him. An unnerving chill went up his spine. The kind he got before entering combat. He had a sudden sense of foreboding, like this was what the Ancient had been waiting for. Delandros spoke up from behind them, though he kept his head down. "A duel, mistress. A test to see who best wields your form."

Ashamane purred, and those gathered felt her approval. _"Yes…nothing gets the blood racing like combat…let this battle between brothers be the first of many, in this place. A true test of honor, and skill…"_

Laronar had pinched his brow at Delandros' words, but Thaon was glaring at the novice, who yet had his head bowed. The pair had not engaged in proper combat in ages past for a reason: both their forms were quite deadly, and both were capable of inflicting serious wounds. Despite their rivalry, they liked each other enough to not wish the other dead. They also knew how two Feral masters fighting for dominance would appear to their fellow druids, but that was no longer an issue, with their current audience.

* * *

Laronar opened his mouth to speak, but Ashamane cut him off. _"I will be making sure neither of you does any…lasting harm. You've my blessing, both of you. Duel. Prove your superiority…"_

Laronar glanced at Thaon, who shrugged, and at the same moment, they shifted, and took up places on opposing sides of the raised mound of fertile earth. Ashamane moved to the northern end, and the others followed her, still mostly in awe. Getting a good look at them now, Laronar noticed that there were quite a few females amongst them. That had been the case in the grove as well. It seemed that, without Malfurion and Tyrande's influence, these Kaldorei had eschewed social hierarchy entirely. In this verdant paradise, it seemed everyone was allowed to practice the arts.

An echoing roar that put their own earlier ones to shame rang through the glade, and Laronar knew they had begun. He melted into the shadows, appearing to walk to his right, towards Ashamane, but once hidden, he moved left. Thaon had charged forward with a roar, but even with his speed, Laronar had vanished long before he came close.

Claws whirled in a circle around the purple and white tiger as he lashed out, but they hit nothing. Once more, Laronar had hidden himself well from his rival, and evaded being struck. That meant first blood was his…if he could get close enough. Thaon stood still then, reaching out to his surroundings as he tried to sense the land's reaction to one as strong as Laronar. There were quite a few strong presences gathered, but the Fangs showed him what he wanted.

* * *

Each of them had kept one upon shifting, but before Thaon could move, he felt claws raking down his back, as his old rival effectively stunned him, for a moment, and began tearing into his cat form. Their fight devolved into a swirling mass of bites and claws. Blood flew from each strike, and Moonfire rained down on Laronar repeatedly, but each time he landed a hard, tearing blow on Thaon, the damage to the black furred druid seemed to heal. Given how fast the two were attacking, the flashes of green were quite quick.

Evenly matched as they were, their duel came down to a test of endurance in the face of constant wounding. Blood spattered the grass, and Ashamane watched every move as Thaon's attack power desperately tried to overcome his rival's healing abilities.

Then, in a flash, they leapt apart, as elves once more. Green healing energy swirled about Thaon as he began casting a quick healing spell, but Laronar's mending was much swifter, and before his apprentice could heal the cuts that covered his body, he found himself pinned beneath the bulk of his once more healed and rapidly shifted rival, his pair of massive fangs pressing against his neck.

A single word snarled from Laronar's throat, barely more than a growl, and though the speech was unfamiliar with this mouth, he wasn't exactly being eloquent. "Yield."

* * *

"Neverrr…" Thaon snarled, shifting his form from beneath his mentor, who suddenly found his fangs embedded in the shoulder muscle of his former student's cat form, quite by accident. A pair of hind paws slammed into Laronar's stomach, and he grunted as he felt himself tossed through the air. He landed on his feet, sliding back on the grass from the momentum.

Thaon had managed a swift heal as well, though it was a spell that worked on wounds over time, rather than instantly. Thaon had a slight hitch in the wounded shoulder, but he could wait now. The longer he did, the better his chance of winning became.

Laronar melted back into the shadows, and Thaon's amber eyes widened. He began slashing the air around him in three second intervals, not enough to run forward for another sneak attack. Thoroughly stopped, Laronar bided his time, and let his opponent run out of energy by hitting nothing. When it became apparent that Thaon could keep his defense up all day, Laronar switched tactics.

Ashamane's words came back to him, and he recalled a story she had once told him, involving wolves and a much younger version of herself. He grinned, and moved behind Thaon's whirlwind of claws. Then, in between attacks, he roared suddenly, and loudly.

* * *

Expert that he was, Thaon whirled, and charged towards the sound, but Laronar, still hidden in the shadows his power bent around him, had leapt over the form of his charging student. He pounced then, and began shredding the other cat's back, tearing it to bloody pieces in his ferocity, not giving him a chance to counter, or yield. There was, evidently, only one way this would end. Thaon tried to heal through the pain, but the attacks came too quick, and were too strong. Eventually, he found his form fading, and Laronar paused in the abuse he was dealing to his old student.

Now pinned on his stomach, and in his elven form, Thaon's body was suddenly surrounded by deep green light, as was Laronar's, and their wounds closed. Moreover, their energy returned. Laronar felt like he ought to be dashing through the forests of this verdant paradise, but he resisted the urge. A look at Thaon's usually impassive face, now in a grin, told him his fellow druid was feeling the same.

Laronar let him up, as he shifted back to his elven form, and the two clasped arms, hands on each other's wrists. "As always old friend, your tenacity is impressive."

Thaon chuckled. "I knew I should have studied Restoration magic…I thought any enemy I faced would go down long before what healing I do have was needed."

Laronar smirked. "I considered that as well, but ultimately, I prefer healing to damaging spells. I got enough of that as a H- …when I was younger." Thaon nodded, understanding. Like most of Laronar's contemporaries from the early days of druidism, he had been told of the druid's lineage, and respected him enough to keep from mentioning it publicly. When he explained how old he'd been when the War began, most of his fellows had shrugged, and wondered if he'd ever really even been Highborne at all. He'd had just enough freedom to avoid being molded by the sense of superiority, though his skin tone gave him away, as he was pale and light blue.

* * *

Ashamane stood then, prowling towards the two. _"An impressive display, as expected of my favored students."_ The two druids bowed low, and the Ancient turned to regard her other students. It is decided. Thaon Moonclaw shall teach you the basics of using my form, and Laronar Stormclaw shall make you into masters of using not just my shape, but others as well, to become truly deadly to those who would defy nature."

The group of students regarded the two masters, and then in unison, bowed. The one called Delandros, who was evidently the speaker for the novices, stepped forward then. "We accept your will mighty Ashamane, but I must ask…how are we to learn when your shape is yet kept from us?"

The panther Ancient's amber eyes flared, and the forms of the gathered novices shifted into the familiar cat form, though each of their coats was now as black as Laronar's. _"My form is yours. You, shall be my Ashen. Learn well, little ones."_ With that, she glanced at Thaon, who stepped towards the group, placed the borrowed fang back upon the pedestal, and shifted once more before leading the pack of novices to a suitable place in which they would train. To Laronar, she said _"Come. We should speak more, while we are able."_

* * *

The other Fang floated over to him, and with both in each hand, he felt his power surge. He had a sudden urge to take his cat form, but resisted, as the great panther moved towards a cave carved into the cliff nearest the raised mound of earth that played home to her Fangs.

Once settled in, she spoke to him once more. _"I know what you intend to ask of me…but there is a reason I have yet denied Stormrage's request. It goes well beyond petty words."_

Laronar raised a brow, "It does? What keeps you from giving your form then?"

The panther shifted uncomfortably, her form shrunk from the massive size she'd displayed to her newly minted Ashen. _"My strength is not what it once was…the power of my Fangs that you now sense should be ten times as potent…but without being able to walk the world, my strength has waned after millennia of empowering your Circle. With your battle, you and Thaon have given me some strength, enough for the Ashen, but if I am to continue sharing my power with druids, my Fangs must be made stronger…"_

Laronar eyed the Fangs, and nodded. "I know several runes we could carve into the bone, that would draw on the power of the land, but I have a feeling you've another suggestion."

* * *

The panther grinned at him. " _I do. You're not going to like it, either…but seeing as how Thaon is busy, and you proved the stronger, there is a danger festering in the lands surrounding what was once Suramar that you must face."_

Laronar's eyes widened. "Suramar yet stands?"

The Ancient nodded. _"In a manner of speaking, yes…but those within are sealed off from the world, and have no desire to join it. They have, unfortunately, taken to exiling members of their society by warping them outside of their shield. These elves, soon driven mad by the lack of a mana source, were given aid by one of your fellow druids. The fruit of a tree bearing the power of both nature and the arcane."_

"Such a tree still exists?" Laronar tilted his head, genuinely curious. His own people had suffered a similar hunger for magic after the land broke, and magic fruit, with aid from Nordrassil, had been tried as a substitute. Moonberries, while delicious, had done little to curb the growing hunger for the arcane though. The ultimate result had been the creation of Moonwells, pools of water from Nordrassil's own source that could rejuvenate a Kaldorei. Over time, the Night Elves had weaned themselves off of needing mana, and between Elune's light and Cenarius' teachings, they had found other sources to subsist on. It appeared the elves of Suramar had no such luck.

 _"It did. The tree showed promise, but ultimately exploded in failure due to a potent source of arcane power deep below the chamber it was placed in. The arcane imbalance overcame the natural power, and caused the tree to explode. My instinct says that this source, whatever it is, may be the key to empowering my Fangs, and restoring my strength. Between that, and your runes, I should be able to give my power freely once more."_ The panther eyed him expectantly.

* * *

Laronar sighed, and then bowed low. "I will seek out this source of power…though you haven't mentioned what exactly is 'festering' down there…"

Ashamane shifted again, and averted her gaze. _"I know not exactly what…only that it is foul, corrupted by the wild magic left over from the tree's death. Go to Falanaar. You will see for yourself, but be warned, that town was heavily broken in the Sundering…the shattering of the world may have released something quite evil in its depths…stay hidden. Stay safe. Come back alive."_

Laronar nodded, and then slid the Fangs into the belt responsible for holding his kilt up. "I will…but before I go, I need a favor…" He produced the crafted bark gauntlets from his pack. "I seek your blessing for these. Gauntlets crafted from discarded bark by Nordrassil. I know your power is limited…but I figured I should ask. I can always find a Keeper or something if you cannot muster the strength."

The panther gave him a look, and then nodded. He placed the gauntlets before her, and they flared with orange power as her amber eyes fell upon them. _"May they endure the use of thousands of years…and act as your claws when my own are unavailable to you."_ The fingers of each sharpened into formidable looking claws, and then, the light sank into them. _"That is all I can spare…now go…"_ The Ancient yawned, and faded from sight as he sensed her falling asleep. She must have given quite a bit of her strength if she needed a nap afterwards, but with the Fangs and his newest piece of armor, he felt more than ready to face whatever Falanaar had in store for him.

* * *

 **Falanaar – Outskirts of Suramar**

* * *

The trip had been relatively short, and the sight of the massive arcane dome in the distance almost drew the curious druid away from his purpose. He was half tempted to try to contact those within, but first, he had a mission to finish. Ashamane was proud, and did not lightly ask others for aid. If she needed his, it was because her need was dire.

His form felt much stronger now that he had both Fangs on his person. He had never been so stealthy, and what danger he had encountered after descending into the shattered town's depths had been ghostly in nature. While most had been vestiges of genuine Priestesses, and had let him pass unmolested, some had appeared to have gone mad, and had attacked when they sensed him. They hadn't lasted long against his fangs and claws when he'd needed to dispatch one or two. He hoped whatever was below fell as easily.

It took some searching, but eventually he found what he assumed his patron had been referring to. One of the walls of the local temple had been shattered, and led to a deeper series of tunnels beneath the temple. The passages ran deep, but nothing seemed to live within. The chambers Laronar prowled through were ancient, covered in dust, but ultimately empty.

* * *

Finally, he came upon one tunnel that led even further down, and as he sensed the magic, he knew he was close to what he sought. Naturally, that was when he noticed the first of the webs. Stealthy as he was, spiders are quite good at sensing their prey, and even the finest control of the shadows cannot hide the tremors made by soft, careful steps.

They eventually found him, though he had no idea what they even were. Their features seemed elven, but their bodies were more akin to spiders, and though they'd sensed his treading over their webs, actually spotting him was a different story, as the druid remained still as soon as they appeared.

They spoke in the elven tongue, which only confirmed his suspicion that they had indeed once been Night Elves, likely from Suramar, who had been cast beyond their shield and fallen into this darkened labyrinth. He had seen the exploded tree above, and sensed the same chaotic magic in these creatures, but whatever had caused that tree to blow apart was a symptom of what lay beneath these ruins, not the cause.

* * *

He leapt quickly at the spider elves, drawing their attention as he did so. His agile form pushed off the roof of the tunnel in mid-air, and he spun, claws flashing as he dispatched the two abominations by tearing their throats out. Their dying screeches were strangled, and their bodies sent heavy ripples through their webs as they fell. This time, Laronar was the one to feel the webs shake. He knew then that he'd woken the nest.

He decided to forgo stealth entirely then, and charged through the skittering masses that came his way. Most of them were spiderlings, small, but still big enough to be a threat in the numbers they assaulted him with. Thankfully, the power from the Fangs was more than enough to dispatch them. His claws flashed in circles as Thaon's had when trying to separate him from the shadows, and the wounds he left on the spiderlings ended them in moments.

As he came to what he sensed was the lowest part of these tunnels, the magic emanations he felt were magnified. He resumed his prowling through the shadow as he entered the large room, the last of the tiny spiders having long since been dealt with. What he saw, he did not understand, and so he watched, and waited.

* * *

The warren before him was a large bowl shape, and though many smaller tunnels connected to it, leading elsewhere, he knew this was the deepest, in tune as he was with the land. It was crying out to him in pain, and it didn't take long to discover the source.

A strange mineral formation, the likes of which he'd never seen, protruded from the center of the bowl-shaped room. More of the spider-elves surrounded it, and many came and went through the smaller tunnels. They each seemed to be drawing immense arcane power from whatever this mineral was, and the more they did, the more he felt nature beg him for intervention, if only to make the pain cease.

He was severely outnumbered, however, so he waited, and listened. The patient hunter was the one who got the prey. It was thankfully not long before his patience was rewarded.

* * *

"There mussst be a way to draw _more…_ " One of the spiders hissed to another. The one who'd spoken, a female who looked to be a queen, or at the very least a matriarch of some importance, was hissing to the others gathered around the strange gold and blue rock protrusion. "Asssssk the prisssoner…he hasss been mossst helpful with hisss…knowledge…"

The group made a strange sound then, and it took the hidden druid a minute to recognize it as laughter. Whatever had initially changed these elves was now being magnified by this source of mana in the form of a blue and gold rock. It was also likely what caused the imbalance in the tree he'd seen. Such things were not unheard of, though they were quite ancient, a leftover from the days of early Kaldorei society, when the Highborne had still yet held respect for nature, and not just the arcane. He'd thought such things little more than myth, until he'd seen it with his own eyes.

Several minutes later, the spider-elf charged with speaking to whatever unfortunate soul they'd captured returned, with said unfortunate soul in claw. He was bound, but Laronar recognized him as a fellow Night Elf. His hair was a similar shade of green to his own, purple blood dripped from several cuts across his body, new and old, and the robes he wore were those of a mage, not unlike what the Moon Guard had worn.

Their stronghold had been nearby, and he surmised that if Suramar yet stood, and survived, then the ancient guardians of the empire might yet have done the same. If that was the case, that meant there was a source of magic-using elves who, unlike the Highborne, were not inherently corrupted by obsession with power. Not entirely, at least. Such elves could be useful allies, should the Legion return.

* * *

The queen-like female in charge regarded the prisoner. "We sssseek more…Night Elf…we mussst have more power…"

The elf responded by spitting a glob of purple and black blood at the spider's clawed feet. He said something as well, though Laronar was as yet too far away to hear. He'd tensed at the sound, ready to spring into action by sheer instinct, though he knew not why. Perhaps his form's senses, enhanced by his patron's Fangs, knew the time for combat was coming.

The spider queen lifted the elf's face then, and all sound left the hidden druid's ears. It was bruised, bloody, and a bit aged since the last time he'd seen it…but that sneer was unmistakable. Vehlar Stormclaw yet lived, or so it seemed. He felt the rage within him rise then, though whether it was directed at his brother for his past abuse, or the spider-elves for torturing his brother, he did not know. It was a complex set of emotions, but ones he would examine later.

In either case, he decided to use his rising fury. He began prowling closer towards the central bowl, as the spider-elves once more focused on the strange rock. The more they drew, the more pain he felt from the land. The caverns themselves began to shake, and he knew he'd never get a better chance to strike.

* * *

He sliced through Vehlar's bonds around his wrists first, and then leapt into the circle of distracted monstrosities, taking down the weaker ones in quick succession. His eyes were burning with rage, the amber orbs were the only part of him that was visible in the near total darkness of the deep cavern.

As Vehlar rose, free of his bonds, one hand shone blue, while the other turned an all-too-familiar Fel green, drawing its power from the dying spider-elves, he combined the two orbs of power together, and fired them off at the male spider-elf that had dragged him from his prison, and presumably, had been in charge of his torture. The abomination exploded as the two opposing magical forces mingled, and canceled out, right in front of his mangled face.

Seeing herself suddenly outnumbered, and outmatched, the queen scurried into the nearest hole in the burrow. That gave the elf and the amber-eyed panther a moment to regard each other. Vehlar spoke first. "I suppose I should thank you…whoever you are…I had heard the druids my people had become were strong, but I hadn't seen their strength first hand…I thought I was doomed to die alone down here..."

* * *

Laronar decided that that moment would be the ideal one to reveal himself, though he stalked towards the mineral first. He had his back to Vehlar as he resumed his elven shape. "I do believe…that is the first time you've ever thanked me for anything, Vehlar Stormclaw."

Roots rose up around the rock, and broke off the largest piece of the protruding blue and gold mineral. After some quick manipulation of the earth, Laronar sent the broken node deep, and the pain he felt receded, slightly. Hesitant to touch the strange arcane mineral, he grabbed the bundle of roots instead, and began to head for the exit.

"How…do you know my name, stranger?" Vehlar's usual sneer had faded as the younger brother glanced back at him, amber eyes still gleaming. The look on his face suggested he knew the answer to his question, but Laronar humored him anyway.

"I might be old, but I can still recognize the face of my own brother…now come. They will be back, and in greater numbers." He shifted again without another word, the roots of his bundle wrapping around his broad chest and resting upon the shoulders of his cat form.

* * *

Vehlar, for once, decided to listen rather than argue, as thousands of tiny spiderlings emerged from the holes in the chamber. Not long after, more spider-elves followed, as did their queen. But by then, the two were well on their way up the tunnels, past the many, many dead corpses of tiny spiders that Laronar had left in his wake on the way down. The piercing shriek of rage informed them that she'd discovered the theft of their power source, and seconds later, the thunder of thousands of spider-legs echoed up the tunnels behind them.

With a fierce roar, the speed of the elf and the panther picked up, fueled by Ashamane's power and sense of urgency. She was awake again, and Laronar felt her focus on the rock he'd recovered. _"Seal the tunnels…you must bring that to Val'sharah…those following you will not follow to the surface…"_

As the two sprinted out of the tunnel and into the underground structure of Falanaar, Laronar shifted, and turned towards the entrance they'd come from. "What are you doing? We need to go!" Vehlar muttered, but his gaze soon fell on the bundle of roots his brother had placed beside him as he focused.

* * *

Green nature magic wreathed his hands, and the pained earth was all too glad to respond to his call. Especially if it meant trapping the spiders that caused it such pain. The tunnel collapsed, filling with massive, unmovable boulders. Laronar suspected the spider-elves would find a way past them in time, but for the moment, it would do.

He clenched a fist, suddenly, as he sensed what his brother was reaching for. The bundle's sharp thorns extended into a fierce bramble, and before the mage could draw upon a fire spell to rid his prize of the irritation, he felt five sharp digits, not dissimilar to claws, at his neck.

Laronar's visage was one of cold fury as he said, "I would not touch that, if I were you…brother of mine. Ashamane requires it, and after what I saw you draw upon down there, you can rest assured that you will _not_ be taking this anywhere…I should report you to the Wardens...you should know better than to play with Fel."

Vehlar's sneer returned, and arcane flames appeared in his hands. "I am master of both the Fel, and the Arcane. Order, and disorder. I wield the demon's own vile energy against them...to great effect. The Fel cares not what it draws upon, mortal or demon." His eyes narrowed then, and for the first time, Laronar got a good look at them, and recoiled in disgust at the sight of the macabre socket's protruding bone, holding a twin pair of Fel flames where silver eyes had once existed. "It seems we are at an impasse than…brother. I need that ore…the weapons I could craft with it…" The greed was evident on his face, but Laronar hardly cared. It took about a second for roots to rise up, and bind around the mage's hands, ruining the spell he'd been weaving.

The druid loomed over his estranged kin then, and realized that for the first time, he was the stronger of the two. Without the Well to fuel his magic, it was much, much weaker. The roots pulled Vehlar down, forcing him into a kneeling position, and yet more came up, surrounding his body, and further ruining his robes as they bound him in place, and made struggling painful, as the barbs grew large, and sharp.

* * *

"What an idea…crafting a weapon from an ore like this…you'd think such a thing would be an obvious choice for such a potent mineral. I think I will take that to heart, but for now, Vehlar Stormclaw, you and I shall part ways. You will not be welcome in Val'sharah, nor any other Kaldorei land…you have consorted with demons for that Fel power, do not deny it. You're little better than a Satyr...and you smell like one, too. Have fun with the spiders…" With that, he grabbed the bundle of thorns again, returned them to their previous length, shifted, and began ascending out of the ruined temple.

What ghosts were in his way were quickly dispatched, and as he neared the top of the structure, he heard the rage in his brother's voice. "Laronar! You will not get away with my prize!" But escape the druid did, soaring into the air on strong wings as he made for Val'sharah with the bundle in his owl form's talons.

The power it gave off drew much attention as he soared towards Ashamane's Fall, and he spied the ghostly form of his patron, surrounded by Thaon and the other Ashen as he descended. They were in a defensive ring around the great panther Ancient, and he saw at the southern end of the raised mound that other druids, as well as a Keeper, had arrived. He didn't have to wonder at the reason. His bundle was radiating arcane power.

* * *

He landed between the two groups of allies, and turned towards the Keeper as he resumed his elven form, keeping his prize bound to him as he did. He bowed. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Keeper?"

The jade-skinned Keeper walked forward on his four strong, stag-like legs. "I am Varethos, Keeper of these lands. You carry with you a strange power, druid. Who are you, and what have you brought to our home?"

"I am the Archdruid called Laronar Stormclaw. I discovered this strange ore in the depths beneath shattered Falanaar, where it was being used to pain the land itself by the foul denizens who live there. Spider-elves, twisted by the energy of an exploded tree that seemed arcane in nature. Whatever this ore is, I believe it is the cause of the imbalance that caused the tree to fail. Though I know not where it comes from." He brought the ore forward then, and let the vines drop to the ground as he displayed it for the Keeper.

A strange thing happened then. The gauntlet that touched the ore flared a bright orange, as did its twin, and strange, wonderful sensations flooded Laronar's mind. Knowledge, tactics for deploying an army of Feral Druids, ideas for half a hundred spells that would be incredibly useful to both him and his fellow druids filled his thoughts. He was dazed for a moment, and then noticed that Varethos had come closer now, as had everyone else. He held up a hand, and shook his head.

"I'm…I'm fine, sorry, that…I touched it, and it…mmm." He looked up at the Keeper then. "Whatever this is, it is bound to our world in ways I can only guess at. In either case, I intend to use it to empower the Fangs of Ashamane. This will, I believe, turn them into a weapon that can handle demons quite easily. Furthermore, it will do much in restoring our patron to full strength." He gave Varethos a meaningful look, and the Keeper nodded. He was aware then, how weak she'd become, and exactly why the Feral Druids had lost the use of her form.

* * *

The Keeper placed a gnarled finger upon the ore then, and winced, withdrawing the limb by pure instinct, as if he'd touched fire. "I've never seen an ore like this…but I sense you are correct. We can put this to good use, for the defense of the world. I will send our blacksmiths to aid you in-" Laronar held up a hand.

"This should be crafted by those with the closest ties to Ashamane. I don't know how to explain it but…I know this must be so. Just touching this ore…gave me that insight. My instinct says it is correct." Laronar eyed the ore again, wondering what exactly it really was. Or where he could find more.

"Very well…" The Keeper said, eyeing the ore as he did, "But I will remain to keep watch…just in case you need my aid…" Laronar nodded, and then turned towards the pedestal that had held the Fangs before. He laid them down then, and the other Ashen surrounded him. Thaon took up the position opposite, and with their combined might, they focused on the ore. Surprisingly, they were able to shape it as they would a tree, and slowly, over the course of several hours, bonded the strange metal to the essence of their patron.

Once the light blue mineral was fashioned into both the blade surrounding the Fangs themselves, and the handles they'd used, small branches from nearby Shaladrassil, Thaon and Laronar carved in the appropriate runes for rejuvenation, healing, and enhanced spell power. The one who bore the Fangs would find their cat form to be as strong as Ashamane's favored. If not stronger.

* * *

When the work was finished Ashamane appeared before them again. _"I am…renewed…whatever this is, it is exactly what was needed. You did well in retrieving it, Laronar. Take up my Fangs. They are rightfully yours."_

The druid eyed the Fangs then, glanced at Thaon, who nodded, and then looked back at what they had wrought. Vehlar's visage came back to him, his unnerving Fel eyes alight with greed. "I…I am honored, but…but these are now weapons of incredible power…I should not carry them about so casually... Nor should any of us, I think." He looked up at the smirking visage of the Ancient panther. "We should only draw upon these in times of dire need…and until such a need arises, we shall ward them, and guard them. This will fall to the most skilled of the Ashen."

Thaon nodded in agreement, seemingly pleased that his rival had denied the gift. "I agree. I know such a ward, one of the many benefits of learning Balance spells." He gave his old rival a meaningful look. "I think this is the right decision. Such power should be defended until needed, and in the meantime mighty Ashamane, you can regain your strength, and share it with our brother druids once more."

* * *

The panther Ancient regarded her two strongest disciples, and then nodded, seemingly satisfied with how Stormclaw had handled the chance for more power, gained relatively easily. Her eyes closed, and her body became slightly more incorporeal, but otherwise she seemed fine. _"It is done. Your Circle may once more take my shape…now go, Thaon, train my Ashen. Make them into the strongest of the Feral Druids."_

Thaon nodded, bowed, and once more left with the cavalcade of Ashen initiates behind him. Ashamane turned her amber gaze on Laronar then. _"I am proud of you, little one. You resisted the urge for yet more strength."_

Laronar raised a brow at her. "You were testing me?"

The Ancient panther chuckled. _"In a manner of speaking. You are the right one to bare my Fangs, but you are also correct in keeping them safe, and secure. When the time comes, I expect you to take them up."_

Laronar eyed them again, and shook his head. "I do not think that destiny is mine…besides, I am strong enough without them. If I ever become so weak and infirm that I need such tokens to take my Cat Form, I'll know my time to pass on has come." The two chuckled at that, and spent the rest of the evening sharing stories, as they often did.


	12. The Wayward Son

**The Wayward Son**

* * *

 **10,000 years before the Dark Portal**

* * *

 **Loreth'aran – Western Coast of Kalimdor**

* * *

Vehlar Stormclaw looked upon the darkened night sky, once more eyeing with envy the Kaldorei who rode upon the backs of green dragonkin throughout it, beneath Elune's light. Though many were drakes, there were a few pairs who had been bonded as partners long enough for the dragons to mature to their full, impressive size. He had no idea how they stayed upon half-corporeal mounts, but nobody seemed to care that riding an ephemeral dragon should be impossible. After months of being stuck in this city of dragon-lovers, who had completely ignored the warnings from himself and his younger sister of what was happening to their civilization, he was ready to leave.

Alaria did not wish to, however. One of the younger teens, a rider with an equally young drake, barely big enough to ride, had started a whirlwind romance with the novice priestess, and she had hidden her grief within the newfound feelings of bliss. After seeing their mother impaled before her eyes, Vehlar couldn't really blame her. The boy in question, for both of them were barely more than thirteen seasons, seemed polite enough. What the dragon riders lacked in noble blood, they made up for, at least, with proper manners.

He'd seen no reason to stop them, as anyone with eyes could see the magnetism between them. He spied the pair then, walking through the city below, strolling in the moonlight without a care in the world. The boy's drake was carrying her as they walked. Gentleman indeed. Vehlar assumed his parents would not have minded. They had enjoyed the legends of dragons and myths and magical storm-calling claws. Dragon riders would've held the same appeal, but he had little time for old stories. The arcane had always been more interesting to study, not to mention more relevant to their society.

* * *

His face darkened, as he recalled the sight of the Doomguard flying away with his yet impaled mother, unwilling to test his might against the mage that had come to save the younger female. Vehlar had chased the monstrosity, but not before it eliminated an entire crowd, and stable of panthers, with a single spell. He'd almost caught up to their father, for he and Laronar had been in the process of fleeing. Then, his idiot sibling had fallen and knocked himself out.

The demon had moved to strike, just as Vehlar had finished firing the bolt of arcane power at its back. Just as his father had leapt in front of the blow. Just as the kitten Storm had torn out its throat. It had all happened in the same instant, but both he and the Stormsaber had been too slow.

He had, naturally, gone to retrieve his brother, only to find Storm snarling at him. A much larger pair of amber eyes had appeared in the foliage then, and a voice belonging to an entity that bore power he could only imagine had bid him to go. It had assured his brother's safety, and thus, he'd left. He assumed whatever being had taken an interest in his amber-eyed kin would send him after them, but they never saw Laronar again, after that.

Vehlar had no idea what fate would befall his brother, and after he'd run back to where he'd stashed his traumatized sister, he did not mention him. Those taken by forest deities never returned. It was a fate his brother had earned, with all his tromping through the forests. He told their sister only that he'd been too late to stop the Doomguard. Then, he'd gotten her as far away from Eldarath as he dared with a blind teleportation spell.

* * *

"Musing again, Magi Stormclaw?" Vehlar turned from the window to look at the speaker, arguably the one person in the entire 'kingdom' that he could stand talking to. Mostly because he spoke of something other than dragons. Yes, they were lovely, impressive, and after ten interactions and attempts at polite conversation, Vehlar realized they were all the elves here could speak of with any certainty. This was further evidenced by the fact that, upon learning he was Highborne, they'd treated him with the same respect they gave to their Prince. He was ready to leave this strange, isolated island.

He'd learned what he could of course, though in the long run, it had simply been that dragons were not, in fact, mindless beasts. They were actually quite intelligent. Almost as smart as elves. Perhaps even more so, for they possessed true immortality. "Yes, Prince. I was merely recalling the war…Lord Ravencrest needs all able fighters. The demons…they outnumber us a thousand to one. And those are low estimates."

The Prince, Toreth, had the same aesthetically pleasing build as the rest of their race, though like his people, he lacked the pale blue skin that marked one as being, potentially, Highborne. He gave Vehlar a sad smile that irked the mage on an instinctual level. It was the kind of sad smile you gave to a child who asked to wield a sword that was four feet too long for him. "I have spoken with our elders, and they assure me that the Dreaming Mistress and her allies are devising a countermeasure to the threat. We have nothing to worry about, my friend! My home is welcome to all refugees, and we are glad to aid our kin. So relax. Open a book. Leave the war to noble Ravencrest, and his house. That is their area of expertise. I'm sure we will find a suitable use for your own magical talents, in time."

* * *

That too was another reason Vehlar wished to leave. The dragons, especially the elders, knew more about spellcraft than he would likely ever hope to understand. They had also refused to share their knowledge, claiming their mastery required the innate power granted to their race by the Makers, as well as knowledge of the Draconic tongue, something they were also unwilling to share. When he asked who the 'Makers' were, each of the wizened scaly behemoths had smirked, and gestured towards the stars. He'd since avoided speaking with them.

Vehlar turned back to the window, and spied his sister in an embrace with her dragon rider, sharing a kiss that was as unfailingly polite as the rest of this bloody island. He made a decision then. He needed to leave. If dragons could not keep his sister safe, nothing could.

"I am afraid that I have to disagree, Prince Toreth. Your draconic friends have granted you all the arcane knowhow you would ever need. On the battlefield however, my skills are sorely needed, for our mages pale in comparison to the Eredar Sorcerers of the Legion." Vehlar turned back to the Prince then. "I intend to depart on the morrow. I believe my sister will be safe here, especially when one of your own has so…devotedly…taken to her personal well-being."

The Prince gave another nod. "If that is your decision, then rest easy knowing we shall keep her safe. Fight on without the distraction of her well being. Our young Nog'are and myself will make sure she survives this conflict. I'll have the proper supplies packed on a boat for you by tomorrow. From there, I'm afraid you'll have to walk. We've no Nightsabers in these parts."

* * *

The next morning came mercifully quick. It was a short row to properly civilized shores, and from there, the young mage was able to muster enough strength to teleport himself to Suramar, or rather, the part of it that yet stood, shielded by Highborne Magi like himself. As he arrived in what the locals had dubbed the 'Nighthold', he saw the besieged elves had come up with an actual plan in the few months he'd been gone.

A certain Lady had distracted him when he'd headed towards Zin Azshari, and he'd lingered in the beautiful Suramar. Then…the world had ended, and he'd helped the nobles within coordinate with Ravencrest's forces. Every few hours, they could send massive arcane bolts towards whatever spot needed it most on the front line.

He spied the figures he was eagerly looking to speak to, thankfully alive still, on the edge of the well of water that was, even at that moment, being constructed. "High Magistrix. Lady Ravencrest. It is good to see you both yet live."

The High Magistrix looked him over, as if trying to remember who he was, and why she should care. The lady Ravencrest however, had gained a much longer lasting impression of the noble-blooded mage from Eldarath. As evidenced by the darkening of her cheeks. "Vehlar…we thought you dead. We received little word from Eldarath…the scryers say it has been razed to the foundations, the walls crushed. Only Elune's temple yet stands, and that was covered in blood."

Vehlar nodded. "It is as you say…I arrived in time to save only my sister. She yet resides in Loreth'aran, amongst the dragon riders."

* * *

Finally, the High Magistrix chimed in. "Ah, of course…the young talented mage called Stormclaw…you were the one who suggested our plan would require the aid of a Pillar of Creation, no?" Vehlar nodded, though he had been half-joking when he'd mentioned such a powerful artifact. Only Azshara had access to them, or rather, that was what he'd assumed. The woman gestured to the structure below them. It resembled a pool, and even had water within, but it was still being constructed, as several magi were hard at work engraving runes around the rim and within the stonework. "Well, we recovered one. With the Eye of Aman'thul, our shield will never waver. The demon hordes will be powerless to break through. I offer you the same chance I offered the lady Ravencrest. You are welcome to survive this apocalypse with us, beneath the shield's safety. As I recall, your spellcasting abilities had much potential."

Vehlar glanced at Illysanna, and then shrugged with perfected nonchalantness, and a blank expression. "Thank you, truly, my Lady. I appreciate the offer but…Lord Ravencrest has done much for me. I can't abandon him to this endless war in good conscience."

The High Magistrix's eyebrows rose, in mildly surprised shock as she glanced at Illysanna, and then she blinked her silver eyes. "Of course…you do not yet know…I suppose word probably hasn't reached a remote place like the dragon rider 'kingdom'. Lord Ravencrest has fallen. By way of assassin no less. Not by a demon either, but by way of Captain Varo'then's own assailant from the shadowed house of Nightblade. A clear message from our kin in the capital. It was this event that caused me to take a…firmer stance against the demons, and the Highborne who brought them here. Suramar stands alone now, the last city of our empire. Soon, the _only_ city, anywhere. I ask again, will you two join us?"

* * *

Illysanna was doing her best to keep composed, though her eyes had begun to sparkle, the result of tears mixing with the light of her eyes. They hadn't yet fallen down her cheeks though. Her warrior's training wouldn't let them well up that much.

Vehlar's eyes flared, as he too struggled to keep his emotions in check. He had liked Ravencrest, and believed that the general's unflinching bravery and knowledge of strategy would yet see their people through this apocalypse. The Magistrix glanced between them for a long, awkward, moment. Then, she waited. It was easy to forget that these two were still young, and thus prone to such displays. Given the current ending of the known world, the High Magistrix could forgive them. Just this once.

Then, suddenly, the mage's composure returned. He met the Magistrix's gaze, and a chill went up her spine. There was something…primal, in the anger there. A true fury that burned with the passion only hate could give. "Thank you, High Magistrix, but I _will Not_ stand by while demonic hordes from who-knows-where _tear my world apart_. I will not abandon Azeroth. Someone has to try to stop this. We are Kaldorei. The masters of this world. I'll not relinquish it so easily."

The High Magistrix's eye twitched, but her own composure was flawless. "Very well." She said in a low tone as she turned to regard the well of water before her. "You have every right to decide how to perish in the manner which best suits you. We will not meet again. Die well." With a wave of her hand, the two young elves were teleported from the Nighthold, to the edge of the opaque light blue shield that yet engulfed this part of the massive city, and saved it from heavy siege attacks, and foreign intruders.

* * *

Vehlar blinked them through to the other side, as it was made to keep people, demons, and everything else out, not in. Though, given the number of refugees streaming in, or trying to, he wondered if it would be big enough to sustain a near immortal population for a significant length of time. Illysanna made a scandalous hand gesture towards the shield, and then looked at Vehlar with a familiar intensity. "Did you mean what you told her?"

He slowly raised an eyebrow, and nodded. "Of course. Though, I admit, I was rather…irritated…at how she so casually brushed off your father. After all he, and all the others, have given to keep these pompous magocrats safe. It was mostly bravado in there…we are likely going to die. Unless those endless hordes stretching to the horizon have shrunk, recently…"

She shook her head. "If anything, they've grown more desperate. Those strange outsiders with that fantastical story, you recall? They've all but allied us with the likes of Earthen, Tauren, and even Furbolgs. The strange thing is…it's working. Desdel Stareye took command when my father fell, and the conflict turned as you might expect it would…for a time. I thought Lord Stareye was completely incompetent, but the latest reports actually sound…hopeful? We're driving them back, at least." She glanced at the shielded city again. "I came to try and gain us yet more magical aid, but it seems the Highborne must always protect themselves first, and the rest of the world be damned."

Vehlar scowled at the shield as well. "I rather like this world. It's full of power, mystery, and I admit, Eldarath was only beautiful because the forests made it so. More importantly…it is my _home_. I refuse to let some…Fel-spawned invaders have it without a fight."

Illysanna grinned at him. "You know, Black Rook Hold still stands…do you recall how best to penetrate its magical defenses?"

Vehlar chuckled. "Why yes, I do recall the teleportation circle you showed me." He pulled her close then, and gave her a kiss that was downright lewd, not caring, as he whisked them away. Compared to the spell to reach Suramar, this was nothing. Being closer to the Well also helped.

* * *

 **Several Hours Later…**

* * *

When the two lovers were finally long exhausted after making up for months spent apart, Vehlar was deep in thought when he finally sensed his partner stir. It often took her a minute to regain her senses. Or forty. She yawned, stretched with a satisfying crack, and then smirked at him, and his wandering gaze. "You mentioned the power this world has to offer earlier…I know of a method to obtain such, or rather, I know of one who might know the path. Though the power given isn't exactly…of this world."

Vehlar tilted his head. "Then where does it come from…?" His eyes widened a second later. "You mean...!?"

Illysanna nodded. "There is rumor amongst the spellcasters. Of Kaldorei in service to the demons gaining new power. Some have suggested that we might find a way to turn the demon's own strength upon them, if this strength can be taken. The Fel is just as effective against other Fel users as it is on those who only know the arcane."

Vehlar frowned. "You would forsake the Well?"

Illysanna stared him down, her expression hardening. "I would blow it apart, if it meant stopping the demons, and saving our world."

* * *

Vehlar stared at her in disbelief. "You're mad, woman! The Well is what made us who we are. Without it, especially in the manner you envision, there likely wouldn't _be_ a world any longer…though with the Eye of Aman'thul I expect Suramar might be fine…maybe."

She sighed, and climbed from her bed, speaking as she dressed once more in her armor. "Think, Vehlar. I know you and every other spell tosser are besotted with the Well, but what has it done for us really? Without it, as you saw, the Moon Guard was powerless. Those closest to it were turned mad enough with their own self-importance to summon in _Demons_ to our world, and then think they would not be betrayed by them, in the end." She gestured to outside the Hold then. "I've spoken with that pale outsider. He told me the demons he's familiar with always have one fate in mind for those foolish enough to ally with them. They reward the worthy by turning them into abominations, and slay the rest. Besides, as long as the Well stands, they can always be brought back in."

Vehlar glared at her. "Then we hunt down all of them, and keep them from ever returning."

She returned his glare, chuckling grimly. "And what of those we miss, because they hide so well? It only takes a few to empower a portal to whatever realm these monsters come from. It doesn't even have to be near Zin Azshari. Rumor has it they've tried opening others, to better flank the host. Give up on the Well, Vehlar. Its power is limited."

* * *

He stood and dressed as well now, in a robe far less tattered, that he'd thankfully left here on past visits. "Why not use both? Combining the Fel and the Arcane could prove more powerful than either."

Illysanna shrugged. "My…contact… claims that the two magics are opposing forces. He said 'their streams should never be crossed'. Whatever that means."

Vehlar thought for a moment on her words. "Opposing forces, hmm? Your 'contact' is well-versed in spellcraft, then. These are magical terms he speaks with. Who is this mysterious figure anyways? Who among us would have the gall to try to harness the Fel?"

She smirked at him. "Who do you think? Illidan Stormrage."

Vehlar pinched his brow, and sighed. "The one who drained who knows how many Moonguard just to empower his spells? I would hope he's stopped, now that the Well's use is returned to us."

She shook her head. "If anything, he's gotten more desperate to outshine his brother. But this study of the Fel is recent. Even with other races helping us, it's clear that we're outmatched. Illidan may be callous, even a murderer by some standards, but he knows how to fight the demons. No sacrifice is too great, if it means stopping them...I've seen their ranks stretch to the horizon, Vehlar...and this is, by all accounts, a small fraction of the Legion's true might. Sacrifice is inevitable, against such an enemy."

* * *

Vehlar glanced out the window of her room then, and sighed at the destruction around the Hold. Even now, he could see the green flames of their enemies in the distance. Which was odd, he thought, as the damned mist had obscured everything before now. It seemed to have vanished. "Fine. We should speak with Stormrage…but first, come look. Is the mist gone? Did one of our people find a way to dissipate it?"

Illysanna looked as well, and the two raced to the top level of the fortress, staring in disbelief at the massive thunder of multicolored dragons soaring through the cloudless sky. For a moment, hope returned. For a moment, the need to take up such corrosive, volatile Fel magic seemed like it might not be necessary. Neltharion was, in a word, glorious. As were the thousands of wyrms, dragons, and even drakes following in the black one's wake.

For a moment, they had almost had victory...and then the black dragon tore up the battlefield, and murdered his kin, as well as demons and defenders alike in a display of madness that only highlighted how insane the massive black dragon was. The two elves shared a look, sighed, and resumed looking for Illidan Stormrage.

* * *

 **Several Days Later - The Ruins of Zarkhenar**

* * *

Vehlar looked around the small group of Kaldorei who now huddled within the ruins of the once-prosperous Zarkhenar. He was not impressed. They were all thin, exhausted, and dark blurple crescents were under every eye, but then, he looked no better. The dragon's aerial drama had, rather than saving their world, given the demons a chance to relentlessly continue their assault, despite the newly mountainous region to the east, that separated these ruined lands from the Night Elven capital.

Eventually, the forces fighting almost constantly for the defense of the world had managed to halt the advance, but in the course of the fighting, the Priesthood of Elune had lost their newest leader. She was young, as young as he was, but any who'd seen her had noted the almost always present silver aura of Elune's Light that marked her as one of the fickle Goddesses' favored. And now they'd gone and lost her. The situation had never been more dire. The elves who weren't dying futilely on the front lines had begun desperately searching their shattered lands for hope, though what form that hope would take was uncertain.

There was talk of the Sisterhood attempting ancient rituals seeking power from the Goddess that had only ended in failure, and death, or so the whispers said. Everyone knew the conflict was coming to a climax, and judging by the demon's unstoppable will to slaughter, and limitless supply of soldiers, the odds of Azeroth's mortals winning the conflict were small. Desperation pervaded soldiers and refugees alike. Even the allied races felt the despair, though none had, to their credit, fled to their homes. All who saw the hordes understood. There was no fleeing from this enemy. To do so was to all but guarantee those who'd stayed behind would perish. This army was the last best chance for survival.

* * *

Thus, when Illidan Stormrage's subtle call had gone out, more than a few had been eager to answer the heroic spellcaster…only to, more often than not, recoil in disgust at what he suggested needed to be done to finally gain an upper hand on the demons. Those who had not recoiled were now gathered, far from eyes that would interrupt, or dissuade them.

Rumor claimed that the 'druid' Malfurion was mad with grief, and his mage of a brother was simply mad. This too, did little to bolster the hopes of the host of warriors standing against the Legion.

"You have come to me, because you understand…we were _not_ prepared." The aforementioned mage's voice echoed through the ruined chamber of what had once been Zarkhenar's main building, though its owner remained hidden from sight. Vehlar smirked. The only problem with Invisibility spells was their short duration.

* * *

"We were not ready for the demons. They attacked and overwhelmed most of our people by way of ambush, and though we have brought all of our magical might to bear against this foe, these are not primitive saurian riding trolls with their heads in the clouds…this enemy cannot be defeated by the power we currently possess…we are _out_ of alternatives. The Well alone is not enough to defeat this foe."

The sorcerer appeared suddenly before them, and stepped from the shadows. Each of the exhausted eyes of those gathered widened in shock. Both of the mage's hands were wreathed in unsettling Fel flames. "There is only one path before us now, that can save us. Only one power that has any chance of ending the Legion. Permanently. We must use their own strength against them."

* * *

Illysanna spoke then, and Vehlar winced. His lover had become increasingly…agitated, since the draconic debacle. He could hear it in her voice, and the desperation was clear. It was on the face of every Kaldorei gathered. But, under the exhaustion, the fear, the loss, something else burned just as intense. The desire for vengeance upon those who had brought the monsters into the world, and taken her father from it. "How are we to master these magics…not all of us are spellcasters…"

Illidan smirked. "The Felguard are not spellcasters, and yet they fight with the strength of ten Tauren. Neither are the Doomguard, and they are as clever and sly as any of us. Few in the Legion's ranks, at least here on the battlefield, are true practitioners of the arts…it is for this reason that I believe this…Fel energy…can aid all of us...if used correctly."

"How?" It took Vehlar a second to realize the question was his own.

The elder Stormrage's burning amber eyes, far too much like his brother's, shifted to Vehlar. His brother had given him similar glares of this intensity, but there was a hunger in Illidan's eyes that Laronar's lacked. "I do not yet know…but I intend to find out. For now, you all must begin doing as I have done. Drain as much power from the demons you find as possible. Stormclaw can show you how. Learn from it, test it, experiment with it…I go to Zin Azshari, to learn of our enemy from the source…and when I return, I will forge each of you into the perfect weapon against the demons. Be patient. Our vengeance will come."

* * *

 **Two Days of Travel From Zin-Azshari - Somewhere Between Suramar and the Capital**

* * *

Illidan Stormrage glanced around, as he came upon the outskirts of the disaster wrought by the massive black dragon, accompanied only by Vehlar and Illysanna. The two spellcasters had quickly begun speaking in terms only magic users could comprehend, and Vehlar soon began to appreciate the unique genius that was Illidan's mind. His lust for power was dangerous, but his knowledge of the arts, and what he had learned of the Fel, continued to impress the Highborne.

Suddenly, Illidan raised a hand towards a crater in the ruined landscape, and from it, rose a scale as black as the waters of the Well of Eternity. A piece of the Earth Warder, no doubt from his brief and titanic brawl with one of his red kin, the dragon Korialstrasz who had been the only of his kind, thus far, to aid Azeroth's last best hope against the Legion. Yet, after the slaughter of the blue dragons and Neltharion's betrayal, even he had disappeared. Illidan grinned, as he eyed the scale. "Yes...I can sense him...you cannot hide from _me_ , wyrm…"

Illysanna spoke then. "Just what do you plan to do once you reach Zin-Azshari, Stormrage? They'll kill you on sight…"

Illidan turned to look at the pair. In a way, he was envious of their connection. It was obvious to the eyes of one who had been so recently spurned by his own love interest. How close they stood. How their eyes lingered. His dark rage rose, again within him at Malfurion's idiocy, and incompetence. Never mind that Illidan's own inaction had helped the Legion capture Tyrande, in his mind, Malfurion was the sole source of blame, not the pair accompanying him. If anything, they were the ideal candidates for the warriors he intended to forge...once he understood how. A Highborne sorcerer, and the daughter of the elve's best martial fighter. He had no doubts that Lord Ravencrest had trained her well.

* * *

"With this...I can track the Earth Warder. I will steal his precious disk, under the pretense of offering it to the Legion, to strengthen their portal. Then, I will manipulate their portal, and with the disk's power, turn it back on the Legion, drawing every single one of them back into the hell from whence they came. You two should return to the others...they will need your guidance if they are to survive…"

Vehlar turned to Illidan, and bowed in the Highborne style. Elegant, perfect, and yet the respect he conveyed was genuine. "We will leave you here then, Stormrage. Good luck with your plan...and remember...guard your mind. Demons are not simply mindless beasts. The smarter ones are cunning."

He referred needlessly to the Satyrs, and Illidan grimaced, recalling again how they'd captured Tyrande. Even he had to admire their ability to cast while being fired upon. Portals usually required significant concentration. It seemed their dark gifts, whatever they were, enhanced their arcane abilities as well. As Illidan opened his mouth to answer, both mages fell into a 'casting crouch', hands raised as the rubble shifted around them. A deep laugh boomed above them, and they spied a figure descending through the mist. A Doomguard, with a pair of wicked looking warglaives in each claw, hovered above them with a dark grin.

* * *

No less than ten of his burly, winged kin joined him as they descended to the ground. "Yes...we are rather cunning, aren't we...the Satyrs are weak, compared to us! As weak as all the other creatures on this pathetic rock..." The lead Doomguard gestured with a glaive, and Vehlar noted Illidan eyeing the weapons with obvious desire, as the monologuing demon approached them.

"What do you have there, little morsel?" The demon was close enough to smell the foul odor that was its breath and natural musk, but Vehlar took the chance to study one up close as the Doomguard continued to speak. "A scale from the dragon...yes...you intend to track it, don't you...my Lord will be most pleased...he covets the dragon's disk...and I will be the one who retrieves it from him!" The crimson skinned demon laughed, and his brothers joined him. They felt sure of their victory over three elves, two of which were unarmed. Illysanna had an elven blade in her hands, but only time would tell if it would be enough to match the weapons the leader of this pack held.

The Doomguard bore a vague similarity to the Eredar warlocks that acted as the Legion's magical fighting force, but their gifts were obviously tilted towards brute strength, rather than magical power. That, and flight, made them irritating to deal with. Vehlar typically took a special pleasure in tearing their wings off, still rather furious that only one had managed to take out his parents, and essentially his brother as well. They were Highborne. Scores of demons should have been required, but in the months spent fighting this war, he had been forced to accept an undeniable fact. Compared to the demons, his people were weak. Highborne and low born, mage and warrior. The might the Well had given them had subjugated the entirety of Azeroth, and yet all their magical might paled compared to the power of the Legion.

* * *

This time, Illidan spoke, a dark smirk forming on his sneering, lupine visage as his eyes kept flitting back to the warglaives burning with Fel power. "I thought as much. My plans will work..." He raised a hand. An aura of darkness covered it. "But first...you will die."

The spell flared, and a bolt of darkness shot towards the demon, only to be split in twain by the glorious glaives he wielded. He laughed again. "Pathetic." He gestured to his squad, then. "Attack! Feast upon their flesh!" The other Doomguard charged, but Vehlar and Illysanna were already prepared to meet them. One went down rather quickly as a rapid series of magic missiles tore his chest apart. Illysanna ducked under a pair of lances, slid between the pair wielding them as she hamstrung their strange, alien legs, and then she leapt, spinning in the air as she took their heads from behind, two at once, with a single motion.

Illidan watched them, smirking. They were indeed ideal candidates. He left the others to them, and focused on the leader. He wanted those weapons...they were almost calling him, tantalizing him as they burned with Fel power. Rhonin had claimed that magic users needed to be ready to deal with melee attacks at a moment's notice, and with weapons like those, Illidan would no longer need to blink out of danger, as Vehlar did that very moment, but not before leaving three of their attackers trapped by ice around their hooves. Illysanna took out two more, and Vehlar made the third's skull explode, as a pair of spiraling arcane bolts collided in the vicinity of the demon's head. Only four of the leader's minions remained, and the pair split them evenly.

* * *

For his part, Illidan let the leader close, and he roared in fury as the nimble spellcaster dodged his strikes. A minor spell enhanced his perception and natural elven dexterity, letting him track where the warglaives would slice at him. The illusion, was that he was too fast to be hit, almost a blur. The more he looked at the glaives, the more he was convinced. They were calling to him on a primal level.

He didn't know how he knew what he needed to do to attain their power, but he did it anyway, trusting his instincts in that moment. A fireball formed in one claw, and while the Doomguard drew back to slice through it, his other hand, once more shrouded in black energy, dove into the demon's muscled chest, and with perverse satisfaction, removed the beast's still burning heart. It took a moment for the creature to realize it was already dead. "This...can't be! I am...Azzinoth! I am...unbeatable!"

"You are weak." Another bolt of darkness ended the creature, as its head exploded. Sizzling gore and Fel blood covered Illidan, but he did not notice even as it sizzled against his flesh. He did not even watch as his two most promising recruits thus far dispatched a pair of demons each. While they fought, he claimed his prize, knowing as soon as he gripped the warglaives, that this was right. This, finally, was a part of his destiny manifesting before him. Confidence filled him. He could trick Sargeras into giving him the knowledge he sought. He could face down a Dragon Aspect, as Krasus had called them, and steal his precious disk. He was, finally, on the path he had always known he was meant to walk.

* * *

The heart in his hand pulsed, and then faded into nothingness, absorbed by the glaives themselves. They were not sentient, that much Illidan could tell, but there _were_ souls within them, powering the Fel that made them so strong. Souls that hungered, endlessly, and cared not who fed them. Now, Azzinoth's essence would feed them as well.

 _Take in the blood…_

Illidan blinked his amber eyes as the words echoed in his head, and he knew, the weapons were telling him, as best they could, how to achieve what he desired. He inhaled, and the gore faded from him, as he took in the Fel energy that had suffused the creature it had come from. He felt his strength grow. He felt powerful...unstoppable. He looked at the glaives, as Vehlar and Illysanna approached. The demons of the palace would not allow him to keep these treasures for himself. Not at first. He could not risk not getting them back.

The amber eyes turned to his allies. Vehlar was eyeing him with a frown, but Illysanna was unreadable. Perhaps they wondered if his absorption of the demon gore was having adverse effects. Illidan only felt stronger. Strong enough to take Zin-Azshari by himself. "These weapons...are powerful. Study them. Keep them safe until I return...I will not let them return to the Legion."

He gave them to Illysanna over Vehlar, if only to keep the elf from reducing them to their base components out of enchanter's curiosity, and then departed for Zin-Azshari. Their panthers had run off with the arrival of the Doomguard, his own going in a different direction than the lover's. It was no issue. A pack of felhounds came upon him not long into his trek towards the capital, and again he drew their essence into himself. He knew it was changing him, and soon, he would know how, exactly, he could replicate whatever glorious changes the power brought with it. He left one of the beasts alive to serve as his mount, with the rest of its pack becoming fuel for his ever-growing strength. When next he held his glaives, he would be unstoppable.

* * *

 **Several Weeks Later – The Sundering**

* * *

Though the War of the Ancients had lasted several months now, it was finally, definitively, over. Illidan's secret project hadn't accomplished much for the war effort, as Vehlar and the others had lost several candidates just trying to trap a demon, and the act of drawing Fel magic from it proved difficult, as the magic was volatile, and seemed to overpower every arcane spell Vehlar used to contain it, easily.

Those who survived had tested an idea from legends past, and tattooed lines of magical runes on their skin, to help their bodies adapt to using the Fel quicker. For some, it had worked a little too well, and the emaciated Fel-ghouls were put down as a kindness. Naturally, their already small numbers had dwindled harshly. Only four remained, after the land had sundered beneath them, and each had been emaciated by using the Fel with limited knowledge. They had eventually divined the need for a fuel source, that wasn't their own souls, but as of yet hadn't figured out an alternative. Once the demons had been inexplicably torn into the sky, their vast pool of Fel had vanished, and they had moved with the refugees and the host to the safety of Hyjal, stopping only to retrieve the glaives Illidan had claimed as his own from where Illysanna had sequestered them.

It took hours for the gathered mass of refugees and fleeing soldiers, all that remained of the Kaldorei empire, to organize themselves into something resembling a camp, and during that short window, Illidan Stormrage had, quietly, returned to his little cult, finding that pitifully few remained. He now understood what the Legion was. Where it had been. The futility of killing demons on the mortal plane, and what kind of sacrifice would be required to permanently end the demonic threat. Now, his four remaining followers, two males, two females, listened within the cave they stowed his glaives in, as he shared what he had learned from the dark Titan himself.

* * *

"You cannot comprehend Sargeras. His might is infinite, his power in this conflict not even a fraction of his true strength. He is a Titan. A race of cosmic creators from pure mythological fantasy that, evidently, holds some truth. I don't know what happened to make him fall…" Illidan's new eyes flared beneath his blindfold. "But I intend to learn…the Hunter must know his prey." He grinned at each of them. "That is what we must become. Demon hunters. We will strike at the Legion wherever we can, with their own dark power. They have the confidence of thousands of burned and defeated worlds. We will be the ones they fear to face."

"But how?" Vehlar asked, "Without the Well, we couldn't even attempt a portal anywhere meaningful…not with arcane energy, and Fel-based portals…are a bad idea. We tried those…we'd need a demonic grimoire to even have a chance of using one right…and even then, we would all likely end up dead."

Illidan stared down Vehlar with an intensity he hadn't possessed before. His need to beat Malfurion had been replaced by a much greater obsession. The end of the Dark Titan. No matter the cost. "Leave that to me…I have a plan to give our race a chance. The High Magistrix was correct when she surmised that the Well might be destroyed in this conflict, and that our surviving people would need a source of mana to feed upon. Whether they like it or not, they are creatures of magic. They _need_ a source. I will give them one, with the lake atop Hyjal as the base. You will be able to use it as well as any other, once I infuse it with a bit of the Well's waters. My gift, to you, my loyal followers."

* * *

Illysanna spoke then, "But that's the only water source for miles…they won't take kindly to you turning it into a font of arcane energy, Illidan. Hyjal is considered sacred ground. They barely tolerate you as it is."

The Sorcerer gave his few remaining followers a dark grin. "When this is done, they won't be _able_ to stop me…even if they wished to. This new power is…potent. I must show you all how to attain what I have…and quickly."

"And what…" Vehlar said, "Must we give to achieve what you have?"

Illidan grinned at him. The eyes flared, and the blindfold ignited, and burned away. His true, shocking visage was now visible to all remaining. Even the hardiest among them flinched. His tattooed body, covered to a greater degree than they had been willing to endure themselves, sparked with black lightning, as he drew his glaives to him. They manifested in his grip, and again, he was sure. This was his path. The blades had dimmed in the weeks without feeding, looking like regular blades, but to Illidan's eyes, he now saw they were simply inactive, and hungry. They tried to take in his power, but he forced them to submit with his iron will before answering his fellow sorcerer.

"Everything."

* * *

 **Several Millennia Later – The War of the Satyr**

* * *

Things had certainly not gone as planned. Illidan had been easily subdued by strange new druidic magic, and then imprisoned within a barrow by his own brother, warglaives included. His gift to them, the supposed font of magic, was now a font of nature, capped by the World Tree, Nordrassil. Illidan's scattered group had dwindled again, down to just Vehlar and Illysanna. The others had simply vanished one night, into the wilds to hunt what was left of the Legion with what they had learned.

He and Illysanna had agreed, the other two were more intent on wreaking havoc, than claiming vengeance. They would kill anything, and hunt their foe relentlessly. Vehlar and the last Ravencrest had focused on more specific prey, enemies they felt were the direct cause for their people's downfall, the loss of the Well, and the loss of magic. The ones who not only had invited the demons in, but had joined them, and kept them coming through, while understanding all the while exactly what they were letting in. Satyrs.

Being mages of skill even amongst the Legion, small groups of satyrs had gathered what energies they could in the chaotic Sundering, and teleported safely to Kalimdor. Or what was left of it. Far enough south in the ashen vales of wild forest to be undetectable to what remained of the elven empire.

* * *

Over the long years, the two had subsisted on Fel energy, consuming the satyrs' flesh, and enhancing what they could do. They also understood, thanks to the ever-present nature of their demons, that running out of energy to keep them contained would end only one way, for them. The satyrs they took alive were introduced to an entirely new level of pain as the two fed on the potent Fel energies that had done to them over time what Sargeras had done to Illidan in mere moments; changed their very beings into something far stronger, and genuinely demonic. They had, slowly, become the demon's natural predators, but could also be counted among their number, because of what the Fel energies had wrought.

In recent times, the satyrs had become far more active, and the two were, finally, able to draw in enough Fel energy for the ritual Illidan had taught them, but they had simply lacked the power to use. It was entirely Fel based, and what demons were left had gone well into hiding as they too recovered magical might.

With all the recent activity, and apparently even skirmishes with the Sentinels of their people, the pair had managed to capture two satyr commanders, powerful demons both, and found them suitable for new recruits, provided they found any. It took some time for them to learn of the war that had evidently begun, and begun badly, for the Kaldorei.

* * *

Ordil'aran had been thoroughly smashed in those early assaults. What few attempts the elves made at reclaiming their empire's architecture were crushed to ruin with brutal efficiency. The army was composed mainly of satyrs, the only thing the demons could make in the long millennia since the War, and other scattered creatures, mainly hounds and Infernals.

When the two saw the tide turning on their people, they agreed that they needed to help their people, or at the very least, find others who could learn what they had learned. The Highborne who'd survived the War of the Ancients proved a fertile place for the type of mindset they sought.

Reviled by the vestiges of their society, they had, for millennia now, endured the stares, spitting, and ill-tempers directed towards them. Many in the palace not enslaved by the demons or the Queen had taken the opportunity to ride from the capital when the High Priestess was rescued. Her survival was the only thing that had allowed them to stay. After enduring so much hatred, this second fracturing of the lifestyles they had come to enjoy drove many to seek revenge upon the demons. It was from these elves, mainly, that Vehlar and Illysanna drew their new aspirants from, and ruined villages usually provided at least one. Though many, outright refused once they recognized that the pair was using Fel magic. Some, eventually, saw how effective they were, even came to understand their inner struggle, and why they would suffer with such a thing for millennia, but refused all the same, choosing other methods with which to combat the satyrs.

* * *

As the new war raged, the desperate, scattered elves Vehlar and the daughter of Ravencrest had gathered, came together in a barrow the two had carved for themselves, in the fashion of the rest of their race. Tree homes and underground dwellings were, evidently, where they were headed as a species, so the two had chosen a subtle warren for their dark experiments.

They were not ignored, however. Even amongst the chaos, with so many new recruits, and law-abiding citizens rejecting Vehlar's offer, the Wardens eventually picked up their scent. None had been captured by the pursuers so far, though. This war was as chaotic as the one before it. Hiding was easy.

Much like Vehlar and Illysanna, the first pair, a female, and then a male of their race, survived the initial stages of the next several tests failed, as the satyrs they were infusing overwhelmed their hosts, and turned them into something new, that was thankfully quickly put down by Vehlar and Illysanna with a pair of awe-inspiring Fel beams shooting forth from their hellish eyes.

* * *

They had their aspirants tattoo themselves, once they managed to awaken, but despite their best efforts, they lost three of the ten that had survived the initial consumption to madness. To combat the hunger they felt, the elder pair of Kaldorei instructed their proteges to feed on Fel energy for a time, and not go mad with hunger, or a lust for power. It was not, they soon learned, for everyone. Many simply did not have the desire necessary to survive the ordeal of transforming one's very being into something else entirely. Some, simply couldn't accept what they'd become, though Vehlar only pitied them, for their souls were doomed to go only one place, upon dying. In the Nether, their inner demon would likely consume all they'd been.

Once the small group had successfully modified themselves, and managed to tame the demons within as much as any mortal could hope to, they focused on arming themselves. The whole process took several weeks, during which, the demons made heavy advances against their kin. Vehlar soon realized they'd need a much bigger operation to reach the numbers Illidan had spoken of fighting with. The numbers each of them knew would be required, given the size of the Legion.

Though each of them despised the satyrs, especially once Vehlar educated them on who, and what they had likely been several millennia past, he emphasized that this current enemies' number was barely even a scout force, compared to the numbers the Legion possessed. The remnants of the demonic forces had recruited far more effectively than their would-be hunters it seemed.

* * *

They had no blacksmiths among them, but with his sight, Vehlar managed to concoct a blend of metal that would come to be rather similar to what was referred to as Demonsteel, when the smiths of Dalaran began taking a page from the Illidari, and worked with Fel materials. The main difference in his blades composition, and the simple, dual-sided elven glaives they created for their aspirants, was the strange metal that he had procured from Satyrnaar. Once, the place had been a shrine to Elune, but the demon's presence, or perhaps their magic, had perverted the once gleaming white fusion of metal and stone into something red, and tainted with Fel. He found that it was rather good for binding satyric souls, and he fed his blades well the moment they cooled, and had the all-important binding runes scribed into their length.

They fed each of their weapons, keeping a careful eye on the runes that marked them as being full, or close to breaking. He lost count of how many days they hunted the demons once they were ready. Though they lost two of their number, it was clear Illidan's idea of elite Demon Hunters had some merit. The Fel beings could not comprehend what they fought, and by the time they did, their souls were bound in their hunter's glaives, screaming in agony as their Fel power was used to fuel the many abilities the elves practiced to stay alive, amongst hordes of enemies. Eventually, they had snuck into the Satyr's ranks, and assassinated their generals, lieutenants, and anything resembling a hierarchy. Chaos soon rained in their ranks, for their people's 'Feral Druids' and Nightstalkers were doing the same to the satyr leadership in other camps across Ashenvale.

Unlike the rest of the elves however, the hunters were not distracted by the fate of the Worgen. The conflict for the small band of mutated Kaldorei was much, much longer, as they spent years stalking hints of their prey through Kaldorei lands once the elven army smashed them to pieces, all the while evading the Wardens, and their people. For safety, they agreed to travel solo, hunting their prey in pairs, at most. Any more would attract the Warden's ever vigilant gazes.

* * *

Vehlar, for once, parted from his long-time lover to hunt around Satyrnaar, as it remained one of the creature's strongest holdings, and had a plethora of souls for him to ensnare. It was well hidden in the forests, but it teemed with Vehlar's prey. Yet no matter how many he killed, there were always more. It was maddening, after a time. More than once he'd simply charged into the 'streets' of the settlement, slaughtering as he went, and yet always, there were more of the horned demons.

Eventually, they came to fear him, for his cruelty was legendary. He had, after a time, learned the truth of the futility of killing demons outside of their home realm. He generally tried to keep his kills alive, for a time, before sending them back to the realm from whence they'd been spawned. He wanted them terrified of returning to Azeroth, and over time, they were.

As the years passed, the physical changes to his form made him able to pass among other satyrs in disguise, for he too sported a pair of horns that resembled theirs. He hunted this way all over Ashenvale, for years beyond counting, doing everything in his power to keep the satyrs from rising again.

* * *

He also moved among his people, with the safety of anonymity, and illusion magic for his eyes and horns. He steered clear of druids as often as possible, for they had a bad habit of sensing his presence, even under disguise. It was in this way that he kept himself, and the other hunters who'd survived thus far, informed of where demonic forces were gathering in Kalimdor.

Eventually, thanks to their immortality, the demon's presence dropped to almost nil. The small band of hunters learned then that the Wardens had been hunting the remaining demons as well, and had developed new methods of tracking Fel energy. It took several painful losses against their better armed and equipped Wardens for them to realize the only large sources of remaining Fel magic were themselves.

Once more, only Vehlar and Illysanna avoided capture, death, or imprisonment. With no chance of breaking Illidan and the others free on their own, the two planned to lay low, until yet another tragedy ravaged the Kaldorei, and gave them a chance to gain more hunters. That changed when Vehlar learned his longtime hunting partner had been captured, and imprisoned in the Warden's Vault as well.

* * *

 **Several Weeks Before Andrassil Fell – The Broken Isles**

* * *

Vehlar walked calmly amongst the other Wardens as they recited the phrase to open the door to the Vault. His illusion magic had, after some lengthy stays in what remained of his people's libraries, improved considerably, and as a hunter, he had eventually learned how to mute, if not altogether hide, his killing intent. The fact that he had bonded and usurped the power of satyrs also helped his deception. The demon within him was always hungry for more souls, though. He knew it wanted him to give in to the rage, to make it easier for the creature to overwhelm him and take control, or more likely, tear his body asunder. The demon would, of course, be fine, but he would end on the spot.

He focused intensely on his disguise as they ventured further down into the structure, and more than once, he felt some elven ward try to remove it from him, but his will was iron. He could not afford to lose his cover here, or he would die. The Wardens dispensed only one kind of justice to their cleverer enemies, by not giving them a chance to fool them again. The weaker ones, they typically captured for study, and imprisonment.

That, was why he'd needed to get his partner out quickly. From past experience, the first month or so was spent on torture and study, and after that, the Wardens would then turn their Fel blood into a prison, a living stasis of total sensory deprivation that was immune to Fel and Arcane meddling. Only two kinds of glaives could break it, or so he hoped. If his own self-forged and satyr infused glaives couldn't do the job, he'd have to try to steal a Warden's, and could guess how well that would go.

* * *

Thankfully, he'd kept quiet and unnoticed, and overheard gossip involving a certain 'famous prisoner'. The last of her noble house. In the end, he'd only needed to follow the screams. He was well acquainted with the various sounds she made, and the ones he heard now made his blood boil with rage. The pathetic excuse for a Highborne that had bonded with him urged him uselessly to slaughter and kill, but he ignored the demon, as always, equating its opinions, wants, and desires, to that of dirt as only a Highborne could.

Keeping focused on his spell became difficult the further into the fortress he went, for the deeper prisons held magic from a time when their kin's arcane might had been unmatched. Simple illusion spells were easily unraveled, if their casters lost the intense focus needed to sustain it in the face of such warding.

Vehlar struggled for quite a while, standing motionless in one of the empty hallways near the barracks, but eventually, he adjusted the amount of mana needed to maintain his cover. As long as there weren't other mages nearby, he wouldn't be noticed. Given who he was fraternizing with, and the rules involving death for so much as thinking about arcane magic, he didn't worry. His people had lost much since the world broke, and High Elven sorcery tended to be able to 'outsmart' the slower paced druid spells. Sometimes.

* * *

There is no such thing as a 'casual' Warden he soon learned. Everyone had a destination, a predetermined purpose. Lingering anywhere drew glances, and eyes he did not need. Eventually, he found the level for Demon Hunters. He had assumed they kept other creatures here, and he had been correct. Thankfully, one of the law-abiding women had the presence of mind to label what was being held on each level in basic elvish. If one knew where to look.

He managed to find a decent, shadowy covering, and like all of his kin, he blended into the darkness easily. Then, he waited. Hours passed. Hunger gnawed at him, but he knew eating would only draw attention. He only had stale mana biscuits anyway. He could endure.

Finally, after what his internal clock guessed was, at least, five hours another Warden approached the door. A guard, changing rotations. He swore. The other one had started to drowse, and he'd been tempted to try and Blink through when she nodded off. Given that the magic here was focused on keeping the prisoners bound, he doubted they'd spared it for a door. He'd been wrong before though.

* * *

More time passed, and he knew, the sun was properly awake now far above them. He'd felt the night drain from him, and knew the time to move was approaching. Then, around what he guessed was noon, a figure emerged from behind the door. He knew her by rank, if not by face. The sister of the man who'd saved their race from certain doom in the wake of Desdel Stareye's timely death. Maiev Shadowsong.

Had he known who she was directly responsible for watching, and what she was truly capable of, he might have simply retreated then. If Maiev was at the Vault, nothing would be getting out, but he had not yet encountered the leader of the Wardens, and there were no legends of her strength floating around. The Wardens typically kept to the isles or Hyjal, were secretive about their activities, and tended not to socialize. But, Tyrande and Malfurion had given them the power to lawfully imprison, and so they were respected…and avoided.

He waited until she left, without a word to the guard at the door, and he knew the time was soon. He counted slowly, with the patience of a hunter, ticking the minutes by. He waited a full twenty, for he had no desire to even chance attracting Maiev's attention. He knew enough to be aware of how many of his hunters she personally had taken down, usually by way of decapitation.

* * *

Finally, he noticed the guard begin to snooze. To all outside eyes, she appeared as straight and alert as always, but he knew better. It had been a trait of those who'd guarded Suramar as well. They had, after thousands of hours of guard duty, learned to get rest while standing. Looking closer, one could see the wall was doing most of the supporting, but her legs and her grip on her glaive remained strong, ingrained as they were.

Finally, it was time to move. He measured the distance for the thousandth time, and gathered the mana. Then, with a bright, and thankfully instantaneous flash, he vanished from his hiding spot. The sentry jolted awake, looked around for a few moments, sighed, and then returned to the infinite boredom of guard duty.

Vehlar, for his part, was smirking. His guise had been stripped, but it had ultimately worked. He needed only a quick glance around to know this was where they kept his hunters. He could even divine who, judging by the blades outside each of the fel-crystal prisons. He knew better than to try to break those, though. That would most definitely trip the wards, and he didn't know if his glaives could break magic that strong.

* * *

Thankfully, his target was not yet encased. She was lying on a table, nude, and covered with half-scabbed wounds that, as he stared at them with his sightless eyes, he knew had been hand-inflicted. He quickly remembered the moment when Maiev had left, and swore at himself for not noticing before. Her gauntlets had been coated with dark purple.

He poured a health potion down Illysanna's throat, and gave her two more besides, once she was conscious enough to drink them herself. The wounds closed slowly, and he'd managed to unbind her before he heard the soft sliding of metal from a sheathe. That was usually the only warning he ever got before surprise strikes.

He whirled, and his rune-etched katana met his opponent's glaive. She was, thankfully, not the Warden's leader, but he had no doubt she could summon the others, even all the way down here. His attacks were relentless, and fueled by fury. His quiet rage had slowly built as he'd discovered what the Wardens had been doing to his lady, and now, it was helping. He smashed through the woman's guard, and sliced through her throat before it could offer so much as a squeak. She gurgled, and gestured at him desperately as she bled out, but he had no mercy for the dispensers of 'justice' that by their actions and their narrow minds only aided the demons.

* * *

He helped the female Ravencrest to her feet then, not speaking for the moment. Her captors had not been careful, and her clothing was little more than rags. He wasn't overly worried about her modesty in a vault full of female Wardens, though. They communicated by hand-sign, but her gestures were slow and half-formed. He charged out the door, ready to fight again, only to realize the Warden within had been the one guarding. It made some sense. He'd check his charge too if a magical disturbance woke him from a nap.

It made escape that much easier though, or rather, it would have. His teleportation spell, a stronger one he'd been confident could bypass the wards of this place, fizzled and died as he cast it. Their current hiding place was a seemingly little-used corridor, and he swore as his spell failed. Then, he rummaged in his bag, and handed her a white stone.

Her eyes went wide, staring at it, and then him. "I can't, you'll be-"

He covered her mouth with a hand. "No. I won't. I'll be fine. Go. It's the only thing that will get you out of here." She bit his thumb, hard, but when his hand didn't move she slumped her shoulders in resigned acceptance. She really was in no condition to argue. "Use it…once you do, I'll need to find another way to get out of here, but they can't stop this kind of teleportation. Go. I'll be fine."

* * *

As soon as Illysanna had used the Hearthstone, the Vault's alarms began to wail, doors began to shut, and he hurriedly conjured a passable disguise as he darted past the closing doors and headed for the main chamber. He was not alone. Wardens from each of the four connecting hallways slowly appeared in the main chamber, and a general murmur swept through the thirty or so women as Maiev appeared before them, rather suddenly, in what he swore was a flash of light from a Blink spell. But there was no way. Kaldorei didn't use arcane magic anymore, at least, not without combining it with druidism in some fashion.

"My sisters…we've a rat amongst us. Someone has helped our famous prisoner escape… someone with magical know-how, and skill with a blade not our own. She may have escaped, but her rescuer remains. Go! Find them! And do not hesitate in delivering death. There will be no mercy for this one. I wasn't finished with her…" With that, she turned, and two Wardens joined her as she waved her glaive, and opened one of the doors leading from the chamber. The others slowly slid open as well, though only after being triggered by one of the glaives. It seemed they were the keys to this place.

He followed casually, keeping quiet, and letting others open doors for him as he subtly made his way towards the entrance. Or what he hoped was the entrance. Once he was high enough up, he hoped the wards would be weak enough to teleport through. He almost tried making a portal, but the casting would take too long.

* * *

Nobody knew the prison like the Wardens who guarded it, and they swept it efficiently. He didn't go more than five minutes, anywhere, without running into another Warden, sharing a nod, and continuing on his way. Finally, after some clever maneuvering, he made it close to the lift that led to the exit. Now he saw why it had been so easy.

None of the entrances to it were guarded, and only Maiev stood upon the platform. She rode it up and down, over and over, standing patiently, waiting with her glaive. There was only one way out of her Vault, and she'd covered it with her strongest soldier. Vehlar fumed silently, once more melded with the shadows. He needed a distraction. As he thought that, the entire structure rumbled.

Maiev glanced up, and Wardens appeared from out of nowhere at her command. Of course she'd hidden guards. He was almost surprised he hadn't hidden atop one of them. They ascended to the top, and he heard the incantation for the door. Then, the circular platform came back to him, and he had his ride out. He paused by the door though, and instead looked up at the ceiling.

Plain, gray, stone. Unwarded, from what he could tell. It was more natural mountain than Kaldorei architecture this far up. And mountains, he could move through. He smirked at the door, and began casting the lengthy teleport. He heard shouting from the other side about halfway through, and dropped his disguise.

He gave the Warden's leader a smirk as the door opened, and her squad charged him, but he was already gone, as he'd redirected his focus once the door had opened, and whisked himself towards Illysanna, still not quite sure how he was still alive.

* * *

Then, something went wrong. His connection to the leylines of the world faltered, and his magic went awry. He groaned, and opened his eyes. A cave, of some sort. He could be anywhere, for that was what happened when teleport spells went awry. At least he wasn't embedded in stone.

He stood, slowly, and glanced around with his unnatural eyes. This place was overwhelmed with wild, uncontrolled magic, no doubt from a large explosion. Was that what had shook the Vault? He extended his senses further, and discounted that. By his best guess, he was near Faronaar. A shattered little village, it had been abandoned long ago. He guessed this cave had always existed underneath it, that is, until he touched the floor.

The rock had been carved away, by something sharp, and something determined. The entire floor was the same, and a chill ran up his spine as he realized he wasn't alone down here. This cave had been dug out, and as he found a tunnel leading from it, which had also been carved, he knew whatever his latest pain in the rear was, it could certainly dig.

* * *

He continued on, simply because he couldn't think of what else to do. Teleporting in mana this chaotic would likely send him to a different dimension, so he walked. He heard sounds as he did, muted, distorted, chittering. But nothing bugged him, so he ignored the skittering around him as he pushed on.

Finally, he came to a much larger cavern, with a much more interesting floor. His eyes spied something on the ground, in the center of a bowl like structure. He went over, and knelt beside it, placing one hand on it. His mind went wild with ideas. Spells, demonic infusions, entirely new, and promising, glaive forms. He was touching power. Pure, unbridled power, arcane in nature, but on a scale his people had never invented. Never even come close to achieving.

He stared at the strange almost ore-like protrusion, and wondered what exactly he was touching. He focused, and used his power to raise it from the earth. The entire cavern trembled in response, or rather, that's what it felt like. He sensed…intense pain, though he didn't know from where. The kind of pain one experiences when something is lodged in a limb, like an arrow, and hasn't passed through completely yet. He raised the node higher, and the sensation altogether vanished.

* * *

Thoroughly puzzled, he reached for the ore again, only to find his wrist bound by some kind of sticky webbing. "Not ssssooo fasssst…" Something hissed from behind him. It wasn't an elf, or a satyr, in fact, he could barely sense the being at all. It was like the wrongness of its existence made it hard to track with magic.

He got an up-close look at it as the webbing dragged him towards the creature that had spewed it. He saw a monstrosity, though among the perverted features he could indeed make out an elf. A member of his species then, once upon a time. "You will tell ussss where to find more of thissss…it sssssatesss usss…we musssst have more!"

"I don't know what it is…" Vehlar snarled, wrenching uselessly at the webs. "It might be an ore, but I don't sense any more nearby. This seems to be all there is."

The creature took in his words, and hissed. "Liessss…you will sssspeak truthsss….in time…" More webs bound him then, and the spider-elf began dragging him towards a nearby tunnel. He swore, loudly, and the creature only chuckled.

* * *

 **Several Weeks Later…**

* * *

Death. That was what his brother had earned. Slow, painful, death. He had been tortured mercilessly at the claws of the spider-elves, and when he'd finally had a chance to be rid of them, his prize, the strange and wonderful ore, had been taken from him by his brother, returned from the dead. He'd always suspected Laronar had ended up surviving the war, but he'd expected him to have been turned into a tree, or something by now.

As he currently was, he had been, admittedly, quite impressive. As druids went. His rage burned away the shell of flame-resistant vines that held him in place, finally, several long minutes after his kin left. He could track the ore true, even now he could sense it heading closer to the part of the isles his kin inhabited. He let it go. He was starved, drained, and Illysanna no doubt assumed he was dead, or captured. Knowing her, she'd try to rescue him. He needed to get back quick, before that happened. After what he guessed was a few weeks, she wouldn't be ready for an assault on the Vault.

He climbed out of the spider-infested hell, and once at the top of the village, turned his anger on those below. He wrought a spell then, conjuring a giant, flaming meteor above what remained of Faronaar's temple to his people's Goddess. Then, he brought it down. The entire structure fell into a truly massive sinkhole, no doubt made by the Sundering of the world. He inspected the rubble once the dust cleared, and nodded. There were still openings down, but the spiders would have to climb through layers of rubble to ever see sunlight from this entrance. It would take them years, if not centuries, to dig free.

* * *

He headed towards what had once been Suramar then, as he knew the land around it was fertile with mana crystals. He could recharge with those, enough for a teleportation spell. He did a double take after an hour of hard searching. On the horizon was an unmistakable, massive shield of Arcane magic. Even now, Suramar stood. Everyone within had likely died early on due to lack of food, but it was nice to know the ruins would be there, somewhat intact, to explore one day, when the shield ran out of power.

He continued on then, combining his scraps of mana into an ever-larger pool, before finally he had enough to bring him home. Home, in this case, was his barrow den in Ashenvale. He arrived to find his lover, still badly hurt, but recovering. He had more to do before he collapsed beside her though. He reinforced the wards hiding them, adjusted the camouflage of the leaves surrounding the entrance, and then he descended below, to restore the Fel he'd been forced to expend by extracting it from his Satyr prisoners. They'd broken free while he'd been gone, but their prison kept them from leaving, or rather, it kept their demonic essence from ascending from the barrow prison.

He managed to bind them again easily enough, though he'd drained one of them entirely too far, leaving him a husk. When he finally did return to Illysanna he felt her stir. "What…took you so long?"

"I ran into my brother on my…way out. It's a long story…and we need sleep." She mumbled an agreement then, and the two exhausted hunters fell asleep then, hidden relatively safely from most of the outer world.


	13. The Circle Continues

**The Circle Continues**

* * *

With the Fangs secured and the Ashen learning under Thaon, who would take some years to be deemed ready by the strict Archdruid, Laronar found himself with free time, once more. He was invited to take residence in one of the Dreamgrove's Barrow Dens, but before he'd even had a look at them, he'd decided to survey this new land from the air. Evidently, he was going to be here for some time. With Andrassil now broken, Malfurion had decided _all_ the druids would join the Dream, and those who did not, were free to train, learn, and otherwise strengthen the world from the one place on Azeroth that was closest, in aesthetic and location, to the Dream itself. Their females had been all but left alone, given the popularity of druidism with nearly every male member of their fractured species, and with time, the Priestesses of the Moon would become the closest thing their people had to a government since Azshara.

As rumor had said, elven ruins dotted most of the landscape outside of Val'sharah. He came upon the imposing outline of Black Rook Hold, and then the Moon Guard's headquarters as he began his flight. He viewed them for the first time in millennia with a quiet wince at how decayed they had become. Indeed, seeing the ruins of the Empire he'd barely known was rather sobering, and much like his people, nature had begun to reclaim them. He stayed at a distance as he made his silent flight. Occasionally he saw figures moving about on those structures, but he was told by locals who lived almost on the edge of Suramar, and coincidentally near where he sensed Thaon and the others currently were, that they were mostly harmless ghosts, vestiges of that terrible war so long ago.

Flying around had taken up most of the night, even with his speed, and on his way back towards the Dreamgrove, he'd decided to prowl through the forests. The deer didn't run from him, as he clearly wasn't hunting, and the other fauna seemed to either watch him with veiled interest, or avoid his giant saber-teeth as quickly as possible. He didn't find Storm, but his ears caught faint, likely hidden by dirt and stone, yowls of female Nightsabers and he knew it would not be long before they began hunting in the forests. He trusted his friend to keep his offspring in line though. It was a relatively relaxing walk back, as everything in the forest was at peace, and wished only to grow and live. He started to understand why Cenarius would make his home in this place. Compared to what he'd seen of the rest of these broken islands, these woods were, by far, the most peaceful, and intact, place to live.

* * *

They were not the only place to live, as he soon discovered. Upon returning, he shifted back to his elven form, and stretched with a satisfying crack. His ears twitched as he heard wing beats just over his head, and he watched as a black feathered owl, not unlike his own owl form, arced up to a nearby branch, and hooted at him.

He'd smirked, and raised a brow at the creature, confident that he knew a fellow druid when he saw one. As she shifted back to her elven form however, he was somewhat surprised at the face that greeted him. Koda Steelclaw had caused a stir in Nighthaven just before the Circle had left for their grim task in the Grizzly Hills. She was of the opinion that females should be allowed to become whatever they wished, as they had always done, in the Empire. But for whatever reason, Malfurion and Tyrande had decreed this was not to be the case.

He hadn't heard what happened to her next, as he cared about as much for social gossip as he did for socializing in general, but evidently, the end result had been her ending up here. Perhaps 'exiled' like himself, to avoid causing tension in the Circle on the mainland. He bowed, and then crossed his arms as he got a proper look at her.

* * *

Female druids were still a very new concept to him, one he personally didn't have a position on. Malfurion claimed balance between the sexes needed to be maintained. Given that he was their leader, Laronar knew he probably wouldn't change his mind. Not for some millennia, at least. As he eyed the woman, he found her not unattractive, though she smelled a bit too much like a bear, for his tastes. "So. Malfurion has sent _all_ the fun personalities out here, hmm?"

Her legs dangled, evidently enjoying the freedom of being in the air. Koda nodded. "Quite. I was told that I'm to train a separate cadre of Druids of the Claw, after what happened in the Grizzly Hills."

Laronar nodded sagely. "That was a grim task…but a necessary one."

She raised an eyebrow. "Vordrassil…right, I suppose you helped with that. Well, while you boys were busy playing tree cutter, I was speaking with Ursol. He was the one who convinced Shan'do Stormrage to send me here, where sexist tendencies are lessened, before nature's beauty." A red feathered bird alighted on her shoulder, as if to demonstrate that very point, and Laronar found his normally impassive face smirking.

* * *

He shrugged then, stepping closer to the branch she'd sat herself on, so they didn't have to shout in the quiet serenity of the Dreamgrove. "I've never formed an opinion on it…females were always in charge when we yet had an Empire. Having a balance of power split between specialties certainly seems logical, at least from the view of those who were once resigned to child rearing and house chores."

The woman actually snorted, not unlike a bear who'd scented something foul. "Was Xavius not male? How about General Ravencrest? Your testosterone filled comrades had plenty of power, both military and political. You're only jealous because Elune favors us, and you know it." She winked at him, and he rolled his eyes. "The logical solution would be to let men worship the Moon Goddess, and join the Sentinel army, while women could finally learn to defend nature as well. There's a reason we were in charge, you know." She dropped to the ground, effortlessly.

Laronar kept his arms crossed, though he was suddenly more aware of his usual shirtlessness, as he often became around lovely females. "Perhaps you are correct, but Elune has, at least to my knowledge, not granted my fellow males her power."

She crossed her own arms now, meeting his gaze. "Perhaps they simply haven't tried as hard as the women. They start as youths, you know. I doubt Elune would begrudge a male that genuinely, and properly, learned to worship her."

Laronar chuckled. "I don't think it matters. The Sisterhood of Elune was very clear on the station of men when it comes to their organization. Believe me, I know. I asked, at Eldarath's own Temple. There isn't a 'political position' on males. It's a Sisterhood."

* * *

That, it seemed, got her to genuinely laugh, and before he realized, they were walking towards the nearest Barrow Den. He scented something strange as they approached. Foul at first, like a skunk, but as they descended, the air had other smoky scents. He recognized incense, and hoped that it wasn't one designed to force him into the Dream. After a few minutes of walking down past snoozing druids, it seemed they were just resting early, and the smoke in here was mainly to hide whatever the underlying skunk-esque smell was.

He came upon a strange sight then, at least, strange to a loner who'd spent the early centuries of his Long Vigil isolated, as he learned to heal. There was a circle of druids strewn about the den in various positions, and in the middle of them, he spied a device. It was, in Eldarath, a common sight, but these days, such things were considered relics. He had no idea how they functioned, and he'd never been old enough to be allowed to try one.

That was no problem now, as the bear-leaning druids welcomed the cat into their midst, and shared with him the wonders of the herb that, according to them, many druids had taken up toking in recent years, with the discovery of a variation of the hemp plant, mainly used for their rope-related needs, and apparently several tips from Tauren druids. Evidently, some variations of said plant, when smoked, were quite enjoyable.

* * *

Having some clue as to what he was doing from smoking with his mentor, and mirroring Koda entirely, he inhaled far too long on the elven hookah, long enough, and inhaling hard enough, to produce a burn that, to his virginal throat, caused him to hack up the decently large cloud he'd managed to take in. They assured him that he'd get used to it, that with more tokes it wouldn't be so rough, and that coughing actually made him ingest…whatever this herb was…quicker. The effects were definitely more potent than what Kota had shared with him, and when he mentioned the Tauren version, they'd chuckled, and claimed 'elven technology' was superior to anything the bull-men could craft, when it came to smoking.

Eventually, with his head spinning and mind racing, the druid left the den, but not before receiving a pouch full of seeds of the very same plant, as well as basic care and tending instructions. Being druids, any of them could, with a bit of focus and mana, produce a grown plant from a single seed with roughly half a day's worth of meditation and energy transferring.

He gave it a whole day, as he had nothing better to do, and split his energy between three plants, which was tiring. The end result though certainly seemed impressive. He'd set up his little 'garden' on the hills just above the northern edge of the Dreamgrove, and after grinding the 'buds' of his plants, and shaping a suitably long piece of wood from a nearby tree, he began carving what his fellow druids had told him he'd be able to enjoy the crushed herb in if portability was preferable to a stationary hookah. Essentially, it was just a wooden pipe, simple in design, but he left plenty of room for aesthetics.

* * *

He felt Ashamane brush his mind as he carved and shaped his instrument by hand, and sometimes with a cat claw, shifted from a single finger. It was just as useful as having a knife on hand, and ultimately less threatening, he'd found. Naturally, his pipe had Ashamane's visage upon it, which meant that it looked similar to his own cat form. He didn't worry about anyone assuming vanity though. He was very obviously a druid, and a follower of the great panther, as he'd taken to wearing a kilt with a very prominent, very feline paw print upon it, a blessing from Ashamane herself, that subtly enhanced what abilities he possessed. Anyone he was likely to socialize with would probably see the resemblance to her, more than him.

He had no idea how, but she managed to find a way to experience what he himself did, and found the sensation not unpleasant, though the smell made her want to twitch the nose she no longer had. He found his own twitching instead, which was slightly unsettling, as he wasn't the one moving it.

He soon fell into one of the most restful naps he'd ever had, and awoke to move his little operation somewhere else. Everyone had a den in this land, it seemed, and he had no intention of sharing with a bunch of snoring bears, or Thaon. Much as he liked his fellow druid, they both tended to act as leaders, especially surrounded by their kin, and that would, inevitably, cause friction.

* * *

He went just south of Ashamane's abode, to what would one day be known as the Sundersong Glade. There was only one inhabitant however, Magdalena Dusklake, but she seemed content to stay in her house, unaware of her new neighbor. That is, until the faint stench of the herb he smoked, after setting everything up again, wafted towards her house. Thankfully, the cave had been empty, and he took to making it his quickly, for he knew how fast ownership of such a nice place to live could change, in the early stages of claiming it.

Though his neighbor remained in her home, as best he could tell, his fumes did attract a pair of Moonkin guests who, upon learning he could in fact speak their relatively simple tongue, informed him that they had owned this cave, and now he'd gone and ruined it by stinking it up, and draping an oversized hammock across it.

They came to something of a compromise, once Laronar convinced the bear-owls to try the herb themselves, for the Moonkin he knew were no strangers to something as simple as recreational smoking. They hooted happily, and in the midst of their hazy stupor, the mated pair agreed to let the druid stay with them, provided he taught them how to grow more of this delightful herb.

* * *

He spent several days in his new cave, funneling energy into his ever-growing stockpile of plants. He bred them as only a druid could, and found the herb on his leafy shoulder pads to be quite similar to what the druids had given him. He tested his knowledge and manipulation of plants then, breeding the two together. The result was an even stronger effect that his new, and first, housemates were delighted to experience. Eventually, he was convinced that the smoke from his sessions was slowly making the more primitive creatures addicted to it, and he warned them of the dangers of too much, and explained the concept of what the elves called 'moderation'. They had, thankfully, deferred to his 'druidic wisdom' on the matter, and agreed to take a break to do other things while he went back to the grove to check on the progress of Thaon and the others.

It had barely been a week, but he knew how training went. There were always one or two pupils that stood out at first, and those, he wanted to mold himself. Thaon was a good teacher, but his methods were narrow, in Laronar's opinion. He had stuck to the cat form, and only the cat, whereas Laronar had, like many druids of his generation, bonded with as many Ancients as possible, and tried to maintain some level of peace between all of them. As that practice had faded away, the bridges between the Ancients, i.e. druids like himself, became ever more rare as his fellows had focused on a single patron.

Ashamane was many things, but jealousy and pettiness were below her. Or so she'd said, when he'd asked if she wanted him to do as Thaon had. He'd sensed her preference of course, but she also knew that he'd befriended her compatriots, and for beings like them, 'mortal' friends were rather rare.

* * *

He intended to keep the Ashen's focus on the cat form of course, but he wanted them to be versatile as well. Any hunter knew well how useful adaptation was, and being able to fly or swim as fast as they could run would go far in keeping them alive. Thaon evidently expected him, as he had two students ready for what he'd told them was 'advanced training'. One was, of course, Delandros, but the other Laronar had not seen before.

As the two teachers conferred, Thaon explained. "I know we both expected Shimmermoon to excel, but this other one…Glaidalis. He was being taught Balance techniques, when his instructors sent him here to master his shapeshifting abilities. He's quite good."

Laronar had eyed the two then, who were still kneeling with the others despite the privacy of Thaon's home. "We will see. Any suggestions as to where we should train?"

Thaon shrugged. "You will find an abundance of power by Shaladrassil…just be wary around there. Malfurion imprisoned a bunch of foul Satyrs beneath its roots."

* * *

Laronar slowly arched an eyebrow. "He what? Satyrs are not Worgen…they're demons. Corruption is their nature. Their mere presence could be enough to taint the Dream! We should kill them, and be done with it."

Thaon chuckled. "Exactly what I said, but our Shan'do insisted. It hasn't been an issue thus far, but still…avoid poking them. We've only so many World Trees."

Laronar nodded, and then glanced back at his contemporary. "How was Shaladrassil even planted here in the first place, anyways?"

Thaon waved a hand, clearly ready to move on with training for the day. "Ask the Ancient, Oakheart. He's a scion of the tree, apparently. Oh, and keep an eye out for the Tauren. They like to train by the tree as well."

Laronar's other eyebrow joined the first in surprise. "Tauren? Here? How is that possible?"

Thaon glanced at him, then nodded. "I suppose you were rather young at the time…the Highmountain Tauren, among others, are the ones who helped us against the Legion, back in the day. Cenarius himself favored their leader…erm…Huln. That was it. Huln Highmountain. He gave the Tauren moose antlers, after Huln demonstrated his loyalty to the Forest Lord, and all who live upon Highmountain shared in the blessing as well."

* * *

Laronar stared. "Moose antlers? You're sure?" Thaon had nodded, but Laronar had already shifted into a cat, and run outside. Delandros and Glaidalis followed him, ascending into the air as a pair of Stormcrows, following an owl as they rapidly flew north, with purpose. He hadn't forgotten the oddity of his old mentor, and it certainly explained it now, in hindsight. Kota had been from this region as well, but had been cut off from his people, and distracted, after agreeing to train him.

He'd eventually flown back though, or tried to. Nothing but foul rumor came from those who'd tried to cross the seas. The Maelstrom, as they'd called it, was still very much a whirling torrent of wind and water, but his mentor had also favored the sky, as he had favored his cat form. If anyone could fly in a hurricane, for they had, on a few occasions, it was Kota of the Skyhorn.

He didn't quite know why he was moving with such purpose, but his instincts were telling him that speaking with these apparently peaceful, if not friendly, Tauren was a good idea. He'd seen Oakheart before, albeit at a distance. Koda had mentioned that he was one of the oldest trees here, and Val'sharah had only stayed so intact thanks in no small part to his efforts, and the World Tree's. She hadn't told him why Shaladrassil was here in the first place, though.

* * *

As the three birds came upon the town of Shala'nir, nestled in the roots of the massive tree, they spied Oakheart, surrounded by a semicircle of elven and unmistakably Tauren figures. The golden eyes of the Ancient followed them as they landed a distance away, and the rumbling baritone of the ancient tree continued, as he finished his lesson. Laronar waited patiently, arms linked behind his back. He knew better than to interrupt an Ancient.

The giant tree being finished his lecture, and those around him bowed, and then split. The elves went west, and the Tauren began saddling their moose mounts, and readied for the long climb to the east. Oakheart's footsteps shook the earth as he approached, but Laronar remained otherwise impassive. He felt the students behind him shift uneasily, and he smirked. Fighting larger, potentially stronger opponents was something they would need to get used to, but this was no enemy.

Oakheart ran three fingers through the flower studded beard of crimson-orange leaves before he spoke. "Mmmwhat...brings you to mine home...Laronar Stormclaw?"

Laronar bowed, and held it until the two students figured out they should bow as well. Thankfully, they were quick. "I've come for information, wise Ancient. I've spent the last several millennia on Kalimdor. I was not certain if there were Tauren out here, too."

* * *

The low rumble that echoed in their bodies could've been called a chuckle. "Yes...they live upon Highmountain...and descend on occasion for learning, trade, and mmMMMmmedicine. What interest does a...Night Elf have in the clans?"

Laronar's eyes darted to the group that was in the process of packing what looked like medicinal herbs onto their saddlebags. "My mentor, Kota, was of the Skyhorn. He had moose antlers…tell me, old one, did you ever meet him? It must have been around…fifty five hundred years ago now."

"HmmMMMMmmm…Kota, you say…" The Ancient rumbled, then turned, and waved the Tauren over. As the moose-men approached, they eyed the three elves with curiosity.

Their leader, a male with a rack that was, in a word, impressive, spoke for them. "What do you wish of us, Ancient one?"

* * *

Laronar glanced at the speaker, and then did a double take. His 'clothes' mostly consisted of leather straps about the furred, muscled chest, and a deep blue kilt that was adorned with eagle feathers, and the mark of what had to be an Ancient, judging by the power it gave off. What most caught his eye though, were the unmistakable facial similarities to his mentor. This Tauren was less scarred by war, and still in his prime, but there was no mistaking it. He was a passable recreation of his mentor, a descendant perhaps.

Oakheart spoke, and confirmed the elf's suspicions. "Archdruid Stormclaw...meet Kota...Skyspeaker of the Skyhorn clan...and the fifty second descendant of your mmMMmentor, each of whom has born his name, in honor of his deeds...and legend."

The Tauren's eyes went wide at the mention of his surname, and Laronar chuckled. "Fifty two generations…has it really been so long?" He moved his eyes to Kota's then. Old memories came back, memories of studying under a similar, but much harsher pair. "I knew your ancestor. He was a good friend of mine, and with his help, I was able to create a peaceful dialogue between my people in Kalimdor, and the Tauren who reside there as well. Last I heard, they were trading weapons and aiding each other against harpy raids."

The Tauren snorted, hard. "Harpy filth…so they attack us in Kalimdor as well, do they?" He snorted again, but Laronar was used to it. He had found that Tauren liked to punctuate their conversations with various physical displays. It had taken a while to understand, and his Taur-ahe was rather rusty.

* * *

"They do. They also learn from our druids…you may not be aware, but what your ancestor taught me has all but become the foundation of what our Circle calls the Feral Arts. Without him, we would be much less prepared to defend the world." The Tauren's face was unreadable as he listened to the elf's words, but did not meet his eyes.

"That is…heartening to know. I would beg a lesson from you some time, Archdruid. Learning directly from my ancestor's student would be…enlightening. Our druids learn much here, but much was lost in the Sundering. Ohn'ara still favors us, but the other spirits have either left, or gone silent, and those few who remain refuse to share with us as Ohn'ara has." The Tauren bowed formally as he spoke.

Laronar walked closer then, putting a hand on the massive furred shoulder."The Kota I knew all but saved me from growing up alone, with naught but my Stormsaber. He taught me the basics of all I have come to learn, and even now, I still draw on his wisdom. With your permission, I would travel to Highmountain with you, as a sign of friendship and good faith between our peoples. Reconnecting you with traditions you may have forgotten is the least I can do for my old mentor."

* * *

Kota glanced at the other Tauren, who eyed him in turn and, from their expressions, he saw them recognize the various Tauren influences on his choice of garb, as well as the power of the blessing Ashamane had given his kilt. They eventually nodded their assent, and Kota continued. "They will ascend the mountain with the mounts. You and I shall soar the skies, Laronar Stormclaw. Let us see if what you were taught holds up after a few thousand years."

Delandros chimed in from behind them then. "What of us, teacher?"

Laronar looked back at them, and smirked. "Oh, you're coming along too. Our peoples are going to have to coexist here for quite some time, and you will, eventually, be responsible for maintaining that relationship by passing on what you have learned to the Tauren as well as our own people. You might as well start building a dialogue now."

The quiet one, Glaidalis, spoke then. "I was told we would be receiving lessons from you, Archdruid. Is this not to be so? I do not wish to offend our friendly neighbors, but I would rather train, than socialize." Delandros nodded in agreement, and Kota gave a deep chuckle.

Laronar looked between the two of them. "Very well. You desire a lesson, and Kota wishes to see my skill in the skies. Let us accomplish both. Take your flight forms Ashen, today you are going to learn the hard reality of fighting in the sky."

* * *

Minutes later four birds, an eagle, an owl, and two Stormcrows, ascended to the peaks of Highmountain. Several Tauren hunters on the slopes took aim at them, though they paused once they spied the antlers poking from the eagle's head. Kota landed on a small patch of land surrounded by a waterfall that led to Ashamane's own grove below them.

Laronar's eyes spotted other druids below, and if he could've grinned with a beak, he would've. Evidently Thaon had an idea of what he'd intended to demonstrate. The two fledgling druids behind him were indeed skilled, but as birds, they had much to learn. He found a current of warm air by the waterfall that bordered Ashamane's shrine, and rose silently, quickly, without beating his wings.

The two Stormcrows struggled to keep up with the speed of his rise as they had not yet learned to fly with the wind, and with a shrill shriek that split the air, the two novices shared a look, and knew combat had begun. Laronar rode the warm air to its peak, flew straight up, and then came down again upside down, spinning to face them properly as he flared his wings and extended the talons. Glaidalis had evidently figured out how he'd risen so quickly, and used the warm air to curve away, and make his own upwards spiral. Delandros was not as adept, and the Archdruid's claw came away with blood and feathers as he passed by.

* * *

Seeing this, Glaidalis shifted in mid-air, cast a quick healing spell on his ally's wounded wing, and then shifted back to his Stormcrow shape, hurtling quickly after Laronar, who had circled around below them, flying just high enough over Ashamane's shrine for the others to get a good look. He saw Thaon watching with a smirk, and one of his owlish eyes gave the other druid a wink. Thaon laughed.

Glaidalis and Delandros came down quickly, spiraling down towards the owl at a much quicker pace, and only too late did they realize that by diving straight for him, the air that would cushion their speed, and prevent a crash, was no longer under them. Unused to their forms as they were, and with their speedy dive, neither noticed.

Laronar saw them coming, and tucked his wings close as they clawed at him, and hit empty air as he dropped like a stone towards the water below. Undeterred, the two speeding crows kept after him, until he flared his wings, and suddenly rose rapidly on one of the many strong updrafts that lined the falls, dodging them entirely as they soared too low at the wrong angle to catch the same breeze. Realizing too late what they were about to do, both novice druids shifted into their bear forms as they crashed into the water, and the rocks below. They emerged more embarrassed than hurt, and the owl landed before them.

* * *

Up above, Kota watched, seemingly amused. The Archdruid had proved he was what he claimed to be, a master shapeshifter, and he knew the skies as well as any of the Skyhorn druids. If not better. The Tauren inhaled sharply as he sensed a presence beside him. A faint outline of a white feathered figure that was, at a glance, a harpy, and at the same time, so much more.

Ohn'ara had told him of the mistress of all flying creatures, the Wild Goddess Aviana, but he had never thought to see her, as she had reportedly fallen millennia ago in the ancient war. She gave a clicking chuckle at his reaction, patted his shoulder with an incorporeal, but still somewhat tangible white-feathered hand, and then gestured at the druids below as, from what he could hear, the Archdruid explained the basics of flying to the pair of damp students. The other Ashen had gathered as well, and now Thaon interjected too, with useful addendums about tail manipulation, and avoiding the urge to eat worms.

 _"They are good, yes? Quite good, quite good indeed. The owl, the owl, he's a funny one, that druid. But alas, not to be mine, be mine."_ Aviana's voice was as faint as her form, and she turned to Kota then. _"Your people, your people, and theirs, you should train here, I think, yes, on this very spot, this very spot! You are wise, wise to be cautious, but the elves of old these are not. You must come together, together in this new age of peace and growth. Yes, train and learn the ways of the sky, together. That will do...yes, that will do indeed."_

* * *

The spirit faded back into the Dream, and Kota bowed low, having no doubt she yet listened. "As you wish, Mistress of the Sky, we shall endeavor to make it so." He heard the chuckle again, and Kota then shifted forms to soar below and join the other druids. As he let the wind carry him into the air, he squawked in surprise as he felt a rush of power. His feathers turned pure white, the aerodynamically challenged horns vanished, and his flight form became that of a white eagle, not all that dissimilar from Ohn'ara's own form, the one upon which all Highmountain druids called for such transformations.

Kota's piercing eagle screech echoed through the sky, and he circled the falls in a slow glide on his Tauren-sized wings. The elves shared a look, and Thaon grinned, then shoved Laronar forward towards the falls. The druid leapt into the air, and effortlessly rose above the falls once more. He was rapidly becoming thankful that he'd practiced flying around them, out of sheer boredom, when his 'housemates' had asked for privacy. He met the eagle's eyes then, and the two circled each other on the same level in the air. They came together once, clacked talons with the skill of those who had done this before, for Laronar did indeed know how to 'properly' duel in the sky, and the battle began.

Kota felt his patron's voice in his head again. _"Show him, show him that cats belong on the ground… the sky, the sky is ours."_ Kota did as he was bid, or rather, he tried to. His eagle form was quick, and quite large, but Laronar had maneuverability, and a natural affinity for this kind of fight. To those watching, the two birds were a blur of talons and feathers, and after three raucous exchanges, they appeared to settle on a draw, lest they cause permanent damage beyond the bleeding gashes they'd thus far sustained. They landed then, and those watching below saw the flashes of green as they healed their wounds.

* * *

Glaidalis and Delandros joined their assigned teacher, as Thaon and his Ashen moved back towards his home in a pack. The remaining four druids shifted once more, and made their way to Thunder Totem. Laronar found that the Highmountain Tauren, while at first more than a bit suspicious, if not outright racist towards him and the other elves, also enjoyed the herb the Druids of the Claw had partaken of.

After suggesting they ease tensions and talk over a pipe of the stuff, the budding tempers had cooled, and before long, the Archdruid was regaling them in the bowels of the tribal city with tales of his mentor that, apparently, he had not shared with them, or that had been forgotten or otherwise perverted through word of mouth over the course of five millennia.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, the elves departed from Highmountain with well wishes, and promises of future rendezvous during which they could share stories, teachings, and of course, the herb. Delandros and Glaidalis made lasting connections as well, though Laronar privately doubted they would renew them when the mortality of their Tauren allies caught up to them, and ignored the elves.

They returned to Shaladrassil, and began to train in the advanced techniques their mentor wished for them to master, though it soon became obvious that Glaidalis was more interested in spellcraft and his own methods of shapeshifting than he was in listening to one who had mastered both in his time. In the end, it did not matter, for the exceptionally skilled druid became the Grove Keeper under the World Tree, charged with safeguarding it, the Dream, and the Satyrs who even then slumbered beneath. Delandros, on the other hand, learned well from both Laronar and Thaon, and it was only a few short years before he too was helping them train Ashen to become stronger defenders of nature.


	14. Shifting Sands

**Shifting Sands**

* * *

Laronar Stormclaw spent three thousand years of his life in Val'sharah, and those days would be, in the future, fondly looked back upon as some of the most peaceful he ever had. As it turned out, he rather liked female druids, or rather, they seemed to like him, and his lack of a shirt. As he'd honed his skills in the Feral Arts further, usually by the advice of Ashamane herself, his elven form's cat-like influences had increased. His body became his strongest weapon, and the rippling muscles stood out rather obviously, drawing looks from all sexes, when he'd visit the Dreamgrove, or Shaladrassil. He increased his knowledge of healing as well, for Cenarius trained with whoever wished to learn from him, and his grove was often lined with eyes of druids from many sects, all eager to watch and learn from the Forest Lord himself.

After such an extended period of peace, his people had, upon repopulating from 'casual' relationships rather effectively, once more shifted to a preference for life mates, and children with two parental figures. In Val'sharah at least, where defending the Dream was something they could yet do while they were awake, thanks to the Dreamway's connection, and there were members of the Circle belonging to both sexes in ever-growing amounts. The mainland, by all reports, remained split as the druids there slumbered and dreamed.

Eventually, the split by gender made its way to Val'sharah as well, and Koda's generation of females became the only one, as the gender roles of their people were embraced, even in the isolation of Val'sharah. With this new decree from the mainland came several other apprentices that Laronar greeted with his usual ambivalence, though he would soon come to regret not checking to see who had trained them.

* * *

Eventually, he learned that Fandral had evidently managed to poison Val'sharah's opinion of him, as the Silithus bound druid had snuck an apprentice with an oversized mouth through the Dreamway portal. With his Highborne heritage once more common knowledge, those who studied under him differentiated themselves from the mainland druids, by claiming not to care. Anyone with eyes could see Ashamane favored him, and for her Ashen, that was enough for most of them to ignore his Highborne blood entirely.

Kota, the fifty second son of Kota, had eventually passed on, but Laronar had the distinct pleasure of being considered a family friend by his son and mate. His son, also Kota, went on to become a druid of the sky much as his ancestors had, and Laronar taught him as much as he could, and promised to continue to do so for all of his descendants, long as he was able.

The immortal Archdruid lived through thirty two generations of his mentor's family line, and trained every one of them, when the time came. It was fair to say that, as the years passed, he spent more and more time around Highmountain. Several times he had even rallied the Ashen that he'd deemed were combat worthy, and had them sharpen their fangs on the harpies that ever plagued the Tauren. In this manner, he trained them for the wars that would inevitably come, and once they were ready, he gave them the title of Sharpclaw, and sent them on to guard the Dreamway portal beside Koda's own Druids of the Claw.

* * *

Despite his subtle notoriety, he did receive several offers for magical advice after word spread about his heritage, though he dissuaded most of those, as his knowledge of spellcraft was outdated at best. One invitation specifically came from a master of balance spellcasting, a druid who had, in his day, been a master sorcerer of the Kaldorei Empire. Though not endowed with high blood, his magical might had made up for it, and the man, Isoraen Nightstar, had proven himself in the ancient war, and among the druids that followed immediately after.

It was safe to say that he was one of the founding minds behind their current balance spells, and his study of the craft never ceased. He had taken an interest in Laronar when he'd heard the feral Archdruid was a natural at fighting, and healing, but never seemed to call upon the spells that he had. His Sharpclaw students also tended to eschew the mixing of arcane and natural magic, in favor of more powerful healing, and thus survival.

Isoraen had come to him with an offer to share knowledge. He claimed that there were depths yet unplumbed by his Druids of the Moon, yet another sect Malfurion had ordered to train in Val'sharah, though their specialty was spellcraft, and most of them spent their waking hours in the Dream, or at the relatively close Temple of the Moon that had once been a part of Suramar. While still somewhat reluctant to consider himself a caster, Laronar had agreed to help his fellow Archdruid.

* * *

They had studied for well over a century before they made any real progress, for Laronar's skill with spellcraft had been genuinely unrefined, and most of the arcane learning had changed over the course of eight thousand years of druidic study and advancement. At the same time, some of the older Eldarath runes and sigils, what he could remember at any rate, had been new and ultimately useful to Isoraen in the long-term.

Once Laronar refined his arcane knowledge to Isoraen's satisfaction, the two began looking into ways to increase the balance druid's powers, and that, was where Laronar's expertise came in. They were sitting at one of the Moonwells within the Dreamgrove one evening, enjoying a bowl of the herb that had exploded in popularity once word got out that the Druids of the Claw had seeds, and were willing to give out more.

"Nothing you've taught me seems like it could become stronger, Isoraen. Your arcane mastery surpasses mine, though I think I handle the natural magic as well as you. I do not know what you expected me to help you figure out, but it seems like our research of late keeps hitting dead ends." Laronar took a toke on the well-used cat-head pipe, amber eyes on the sparkling water before them.

* * *

"You have a perspective that I do not, Stormclaw. We are approaching this the wrong way. Don't try to increase the spell's power using one of my methods. We've reached the max potential, with our current knowledge at least, where spells are concerned. They aren't likely to change much from the patterns we have now. Use a method that a master of the Feral Arts would. Surely there must be something." The azure-haired elf was staring at him, expectantly, and Laronar sighed.

"I...may know of something. One could argue that our cat and bear forms enhance whatever fighting ability we have naturally, be it offensive or defensive, and lately, even in my true shape, I'm finding that I'm stronger. Enhanced by the connection to my patron. Master Elothir has a similar tactic, as you know. He fully embraced nature to better understand the healing arts by enhancing his Treant form, and I would say it has succeeded." Isoraen nodded, and Laronar continued. "The next logical step would be to find a Wild God that has a connection to the arcane arts. My first suggestion would be Ursol, but the bear's form is primarily defensive. Some make good use of the combination between spellcraft and shifted form, but in my experience, they are still weaker compared to those like you."

Isoraen nodded again. "So we need to find a new Wild God, one in Balance with nature. It doesn't have to necessarily be part of a species that casts magic, either. The connection is what will strengthen our spells."

Laronar shrugged. "A magical connection would help, but I do not know of such a creature."

His contemporary grinned at him. "Don't you?"

When understanding failed to show, Isoraen took the druid to the very cave he inhabited, most nights, and shared with the small tribe of Moonkin that had descended from his original cavemates. Much like the seemingly endless line of Kota Skyhorn, they too had learned from the druid, though their knowledge had grown when it came to smoking, rather than combat or magic. He had considered them creatures of the world, sentient, capable of speech, but shy and still very much isolationist. They were to be defended, not thrust into danger. That mantle had, quite literally, been placed primarily upon his people, with all that Nordrassil represented.

* * *

Isoraen gathered the small tribe in the cave they called home, and as the two elves started another session of smoking and stories, the balance druid posed a question to them. "Tell me, allies of nature, do your people have a...deity or god that you all, more or less, pay homage to? You know, the way we elves praise Elune."

The assembled Moonkin hooted mirthful chuckles, and their current leader, a female by the name of Loonuru, answered him in surprisingly coherent elven, after passing on the smoldering pipe, and exhaling the pungent smell of the herb. "We praise the Moon Mother as you do, star elf. It is she who created us from her favored beasts of the land, and it is her influence we spread."

The two druids shared a look, and Laronar spoke then. "I think Isoraen means someone more akin to Ashamane. You know the panther. She lives rather close, and of course, within me." More mirthful hoots filled the cave.

Loonuru seemed to understand, more or less, and nodded. "There is one we tell tales of, a hero of our people, who in ages past fought for the Moon Mother, and was rewarded with power. Power not unlike what your people once indulged in...yet, the tales suggest it was more than simple arcane. Some believe this hero persists in the Green Beyond, and aids our people by way of reincarnation, in times of war. I have never seen him. Your kind travels there, do you not know of Lunaclaw?"

* * *

Isoraen and Laronar shared another look. Both elves were smirking, now. This was the closest thing they'd had to a genuine breakthrough in years, and now they had a tangible trail to follow. Isoraen glanced around at the small tribe. "No, I cannot say that we do...but I intend to. Who here will come with us to find this Lunaclaw?"

The Moonkin murmured in low hoots, something that Laronar had come to see as a sort of secondary language, that only they understood. Having lived with them for millennia though, and realizing his owl form could understand such sounds on instinct, he divined that they were afraid to travel to the Dream. To them, it was the afterlife, a place to go when dead. Only the mysteriously powerful elves had ever traveled to and from that place where demigods dwelled.

Loonuru seemed unphased by the idea though, and since she had come from elsewhere before coming to lead the small tribe, who admired her beauty and knowledge, she was likely used to travel. Many of those hatched here did not wander far from the cave, and attempts by Laronar to bring them elsewhere had been adventurous, but ultimately they seemed to prefer staying in their home, smoking the days away.

* * *

Ultimately only she proved willing enough to brave the Dream, and that was only after she had extracted oaths from the druids, and bound them with feathers from their flight forms, and some vines. She hung the symbol of their pact around her neck, and then journeyed the short distance to the Dreamgrove, and the portal to the other plane of existence.

The Ashen who guarded the physical entrance alongside a pair of Koda's own Druids of the Claw gave them a strange look as the two elder members of their order herded a Wildkin through the portal, claiming it was all for the advancement of knowledge. Once within, the properly awed Loonuru performed a simple ritual, normally used for gaining guidance.

What she found, was the Forest Lord. Once she'd finished casting her ritual spell, a whirling storm of emerald energy manifested before the three, and Cenarius formed from it, glancing down at them with a raised eyebrow. "Laronar Stormclaw, and Isoraen Nightstar. It has been some time. Did you require my aid?"

* * *

The two druids bowed in the Kaldorei fashion, and bowed low. All who resided in the Dreamgrove had, at one point, studied with their strongest natural ally by way of the Dreamway, and the closeness to his own grove. Even now, that grove was likely where his physical body rested, as his mind traveled the Dreamscape.

"No, Forest Lord." Laronar said, as he stood, and stretched his limbs with a satisfying crack. He gestured then to Loonuru, who had become shy, and quiet, in the presence of such an obvious force of nature made manifest. "This one would ask your aid. There is one within the Dream who we are looking for. Lunaclaw, apparently. Isoraen and I believe that with his knowledge, we can make our spellcasters even more powerful, perhaps even on par with the sorcerers of our bygone empire."

Cenarius chuckled, and the Moonkin seemed to, like everything else around them, relax and feel more at peace. The overwhelmingly powerful, and almost fatherly presence of the Forest Lord affected everything around him, and in the Dream, this was much more obvious. "Malfurion is a step ahead of the two of you. He has been training with that very spirit for some time now, at least since he last awakened to stretch his limbs."

The druids shared a look. "Shan'do, the last time Malfurion walked Azeroth was when Vordrassil was broken…" Laronar said, arching a brow. "That was almost...what, just over thirty two hundred years ago? He's been training that long? Alone?"

* * *

Isoraen shrugged. "If he's followed the same logic we have, he could be much stronger as a caster, by now…"

Cenarius gave a chuckle that had a bit of a darker undertone to it. "You could say that." The blazing amber orbs focused on the Moonkin. "Be welcome here, child of nature. You have sought honest guidance, and I freely give it. Follow the path to your hero."

Loonuru looked slightly dazed, as a flash of green briefly surrounded her head, but she shook it off, and nodded, then bowed as well. She hooted a series of noises Laronar had never heard, but of course, Cenarius understood, and the eyes grew distant. "You should stay close to the font of life, if that is your desire. And I do not mean Val'sharah." He looked up then in a specific direction, and the eyes narrowed. Cenarius sighed deeply. "I must go. Something has gone...amiss. Do not distract Malfurion from finishing his training."

With that, the Forest Lord vanished again, as the energy that was his dream form blazed towards the direction he'd faced. In the chaos that was the Dream, Laronar had no sense of directions, and in his limited experience, they didn't matter much here.

* * *

Loonuru led them well, and with the presence of two who were as much keepers of the Dream as the green dragons, they avoided angering or running afoul of the numerous fay creatures that flitted about the strange, bioluminescent trees all around them. They had been walking the Dream for what felt like several hours, much harder while still having their bodies, when out of nowhere, a transparent gold-feathered Wildkin appeared in front of them, and held up a paw in the universal motion for 'wait'.

A low hum of some kind of energy, likely from a spell, filled the air. Then, a boom. An explosion of burning sparkles lit the landscape before them as beams of fire from the sun and the moon strafed the area. Loonuru hooted a question at the ghostly figure, namely about who he was, but the creature had simply winked at her, and then vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared.

Another series of booms soon followed the first, and the three watched as the land being pounded by the explosive series of spells seemed all but unaffected by them. Any damage righted itself in moments, ready for another barrage. The two elder druids had quickly pinpointed the source of the magic, and spied a Wildkin with a truly impressive set of antlers, casting from atop a nearby cliff, wreathed in lighting and arcane power.

* * *

They took the long way around, but by the time they reached the top, the Wildkin was gone, and all that remained was an incorporeal Malfurion, drinking some sort of sparkling liquid from a nearby flower that, from the look of it, contained a source of water within its bulb. Though Laronar could not recall ever having seen rain in the Dream.

He turned as he saw them, and smiled. "Stormclaw and Nightstar. I might've known. What brings you so deep into the Dream, old friends?"

The two druids bowed, and Loonuru joined them as well. Even among Moonkin, Malfurion Stormrage had a reputation. Isoraen spoke this time, as he was the one heading this venture, mainly. "We've come seeking the spirit of Lunaclaw, in an effort to enhance the spellcasting abilities of the Druids of the Moon."

* * *

Malfurion nodded to himself, and chuckled. "I expected one of my druids might come looking some day." The now burning amber orbs moved to Laronar. "But I did not expect you, Ashen Alpha. You do not like walking this realm."

Laronar shrugged. "I could not spend millennia in but a dream of the living world, no. But I do not dislike it. I understand its importance. I will answer the dragon's call to defend it. I do not wish to reside here, though. Not yet, anyways. Not until I'm little more than a wisp."

The elder druid chuckled again. "Even wisps defend the Dream. Come, sit, there is much I can tell you to aid your cause, I think." The eyes shifted to Loonuru, and he nodded his antlered head towards her. "And who have you brought with you?"

* * *

"A local from the tribe of Moonkin I sometimes stay with. She is seeking Lunaclaw, as well." Laronar said, motioning for her to sit as well around the triangle of shaped logs that passed for the Archdruid's resting area.

Malfurion nodded. "That was who kept you from being caught in my spells earlier. He is a good friend, and a kind spirit. His time of rebirth is soon as well, or so he keeps telling me."

Isoraen spoke then. "There was another we saw, casting the spells. Who was that, Shan'do?"

Malfurion chuckled, and then pointed to himself. "Me. In a form designed for casting and enhancing our spells." He looked at the two druids again and chuckled. "I think I can guess how you came to think arriving here would lead you to advanced learning, and it has. You were wise to seek a master of shapeshifting Isoraen. Has his aversion to casting faded?"

* * *

Laronar rolled his eyes, and the Druid of the Moon chuckled. "Not entirely...but he knows as much as any student I have given the title of balance druid to."

Malfurion's gaze fell on Laronar again. He met it evenly, but without challenge. Malfurion had made it clear early on in their shapeshifting training that, in all their arts, he was a prodigy. Still, he'd never actually outright beaten Laronar, as the two had only wrestled to a draw when they had clashed in their cat and bear forms, and eventually, they'd stopped risking serious injury just to test something as arbitrary as personal strength. "So you have mastered the animal totems, healing arts, and now our spells. Am I correct?"

Laronar glanced at Isoraen, who kept his face neutral, but he nodded all the same. "I am more skilled with the first two, but I could instruct a novice in the ways of balance casting, yes."

Malfurion nodded. "Then I congratulate you, Laronar Stormclaw. I had hoped you may one day reach this level, so very few ever do, but after I'd heard of your warranted hesitance with spells, I didn't think it would happen."

* * *

Laronar arched a bushy green eyebrow. "Level? To which level are you referring?"

Isoraen spoke up then. "The level that all current Archdruids, with the exception of yourself and a few...overzealous followers of Ursoc, are expected to have mastered. We just finished your training, which technically, makes you what Shan'do Cenarius calls a 'Druid of the Wild'. One who has mastered the arts of each branch."

Laronar shrugged. "I wouldn't call myself a natural spellcaster…"

Malfurion chuckled, and drew some sort of edible root from one of his many pouches. His dream form brightened as the semi-corporeal form gnawed on it. "Not in that form, no...Ashamane's influence has shifted you to a more natural power. That is why you can reach out to the Spirit of the Wilds so easily. I've learned what she is out here, you know. As will you, in time. You were right to choose a Moonkin spirit, but as you likely know, they were made for the Mother Moon, and are as much her children as nature's."

He leaned in then, and the other two druids, with their Moonkin ally, did the same as the Archdruid's tone went low. "The Moon Goddess, from what I have divined in my...limited knowledge... has been shown to have power over the healing light, and the arcane, amongst other forces. Her aspects are many, but for our interests, it is the moon's arcane power that the Moonkin tap into so well, and fuse with the natural powers of the world. The Tauren have made a similar connection, though they view it as an eye of a deity. The fact remains that they draw arcane power from the moon as well. Lunaclaw thinks there is a source of mana up there, but I suppose we will never find out."

* * *

Laronar nodded. As was common amongst the scattered and free Kaldorei, those who could fly had, early on usually, tested the heights of their flight range. Many had discovered, sometimes to mortal peril, that at some point, the sky's air ran out, and without a means of sustaining it, they would soon pass out. More than a few druids had fallen prey to frozen wings as well, and it had since been strongly advised that, if they wished to test their skills, they do so against Hyjal's height, or in Val'sharah's case, the neighboring Highmountain.

Isoraen spoke then, "So where is this Lunaclaw? I wish to try this form...and I wish to see what it does for that one." He nodded at the feral druid. "He could potentially match you, Shan'do. The Highborne blood is strong, though he won't admit it."

Laronar sighed, and Malfurion laughed. "We will soon see. Come, my friends. I will show you what I have learned…"

* * *

 **Some Time Later…**

* * *

Time was a bit wobbly in the Dream, one of the many reasons Laronar disliked walking it. He could be gone for years sometimes, awakening to find that in those years, close friends had passed on, and new generations had replaced them. Koda had eventually suggested that he should make stronger ties to those who would not perish so easily, that he invited perpetual heartbreak if he did not, but he insisted on his involvement with the Moonkin and the Tauren.

Both tribes saw him as a wise elder, an ally, even if he was Kaldorei, and a bit...feral. Such things did not bother the mortal races, though truthfully, only the Skyhorn of Highmountain liked him. Many of the other tribes had snorted in distrust upon learning of the 'position' he'd supposedly had in their empire. Nevermind that he'd been a child, or even a 'rebel'. The Skyhorn, at least, understood he was a kind spirit, and every Kota he trained reminded them of that fact.

Learning under Malfurion again had awakened old memories of the days when they had eagerly, and unknowingly more often than not, attempted to contact a new Ancient, and hopefully gain their form. The Moonkin's form was rather different to the others he had taken in the past. He felt the Moon Goddess' presence constantly while he casted, and it made his hackles rise. Her staring was ceaseless, and the more he used her form, the more he felt a growing sense of disappointment from the spirit just outside the reach of his senses. She was no Wild God, of that he was certain, but there were enough similarities between how he drew from Ashamane, and how Isoraen drew from her, to make him wonder.

* * *

Eventually, his unsettled feeling began to show in their training. Isoraen, being what he was and having a personal faith that was, in a word, unshakeable, had excelled, and it was clear he was enjoying the form, the progress he was making, and learning once more under Shan'do Stormrage. Training sessions with the master Archdruid were always...unique.

For Laronar, they brought a growing sense of irritation, anger, and frustration. His spells did not, as Isoraen termed it, 'boom' like his own and Malfurion's. Strangely, the elder druid had remained silent when asked his opinion of why the feral druid was having such difficulty.

Isoraen had remained puzzled, and eventually, as he always did, Laronar turned to the Wild Gods, his oldest friends. Strangely though, while they were glad to hear from him, they pointedly avoided his question, and as always, forcing the ancient entities to give him an answer would end in failure. Even Ashamane had hesitated, and advised him not to worry about it. She had quoted the Kota who had mentored him then, and told him to continue to practice until he got it right. It was clear she had an idea of the issue, but in the end, there was only one of the Wild Gods who was more than happy to give the frustrated feral druid an honest answer.

* * *

The Wolf Ancient had, for obvious reasons, been one of the last Laronar sought wisdom from, but as the powerful tones of Goldrinn thundered with the ring of truth, and genuine power within the feral druid's skull, he once more found himself admiring the wolf's desire to embrace his natural power, regardless of the Moon's opinion. _"The Moon Goddess is a harsh mistress. She demands the best of those she grants her power to, and always, she has held a prejudice for those like you and I. I have watched you a long time, Stormclaw. I sense a kindred spirit...one that, upon the advisement of my fellows, I have decided to trust. Always know that when, not if, the Moon abandons you because you are too 'savage', My power will be here...waiting to embrace you, a true child of the Wilds, as the Moon never could."_

Laronar's eyes shot open from his trance, as he'd been sitting cross-legged. He found himself sweating, and moreover, the most famous druid in existence was sitting across from him. Staring. "So. You have an idea of what is holding you back. I expect you're rather...angry?"

In truth, he hadn't been, until the Archdruid insinuated he already was. He felt the rage rise, and he snarled, despite himself. "I don't...I don't understand her reasoning. My family gave a mother and daughter to the Moon's service. They _died_ defending Her temple, when all the other sisters had ridden off to the front lines. I lost both of them, largely because their devotion put them directly in the demon's path, and now I am judged to be 'lesser' because I embrace the feral nature of the Wild Gods?"

* * *

Malfurion sighed. "You have a choice to make. Though I suspect I know which you will choose...if you embrace the Moon, and put your faith in Her, as we have, you will likely have access to impressive spells, as we do."

Laronar stared at him. "I do not require the Moon's aid to cast spells, and the alternative is a Pack Form granted by Goldrinn himself with the promise not to drive me mad with fury. The Wolf Ancient may be too 'savage' for Elune's liking, but his word is more than enough for me."

Malfurion's eyes darkened. "We have been down this road, Laronar. The Pack Form will never be mastered. If you accept the Wolf's offer, you will lose the Moon's favor. That much, I know."

"This would be much easier if I could but simply talk to her...but I have never heard her voice, or felt her presence. Not even when her light has mended my wounds. Not one single time, over the better part of eight thousand years." He met Malfurion's gaze, evenly. "Goldrinn said it himself. I am a child of the Wilds. Not the moon."

* * *

Very suddenly, and without warning, a familiar pair of orbs, one blue, and small, one white, and impossibly bright, appeared in the aether that was the Dream's sky. Isoraen and Malfurion knelt. Laronar stood, wincing as he stared the two down. This, at least, was a tangible method of communicating. It was to be short lived, however. Moonlight surrounded him, but as he opened his mouth to petition the Goddess of his people with the respect he, even then, felt she was due, he found himself unable to make a sound. Instead, a feminine and unfamiliar voice filled the area.

Your choice is made. My light will no longer guide you. Embrace your savagery, and waste your potential, if that is your true desire.

Just as suddenly as she'd appeared, she vanished, bringing the smaller moon with her. Once more the sky was emerald, and opaque. Isoraen gasped as he looked at the feral druid he'd come to like, and Malfurion sighed. "It seems you have what you desired. But you will never be considered a Druid of the Wild while your spellcasting is, undoubtedly, crippled."

Laronar's brow furrowed. "I can still become a Moonkin. I can still use the power of nature's spells. I freely give up the Arcane if I must, as I have before. I do not need it."

Malfurion sighed, and with a wave of his hand, created a small, still pool of water in a natural depression of the Dream's landscape. "You have lost much more than the Arcane, Laronar Stormclaw. You may come to regret this choice."

* * *

Laronar gazed at the pool, and his amber eyes widened. Gone was the pale, light blue skin of a Highborne. Now, it was darker, more purple, and unquestionably more savage. His elven form had a feral leanness to it that he'd seen before in starving wild animals, and his eyes burned with a rage and intensity that, before now, he had hidden well. He smirked as he eyed his familiar, and yet brand new visage. It would do nicely for intimidation, though it would likely dissuade any lingering female gazes. At that moment, he didn't much care. He had about as much success with the fairer sex as he did balance spells.

As he saw what the Moon Goddess had wrought upon his form, a change he had not requested, and felt more than a little irritated by, he decided that he had been correct in his choice. She had stifled his tongue, when the Ancients had at least heard him out. She had shifted his form without his permission or desire, something every single other Ancient had been hesitant to do, at first. She had been silent throughout his life, whereas the guardians of nature had always left him with wisdom to ponder, even if they considered him a nuisance at first. He knew who he would give his life, and power, to. Those who deserved it.

"So be it. I will leave you and Isoraen to master the Moonkin form…" He shifted as he spoke, and examined his Wildkin shape. Gone was the healthy bulk. His form was thin, ragged, almost sickly looking, and he felt an irritation grow at the back of his neck the longer he held the shape. He dropped it again, quickly. "This is for those who desire stronger spells. Our feral druids should focus on the shapes they always have. This one should be kept...exclusive. It seems that is what Elune desires."

He walked off with an irritated snarl then, leaving Isoraen and Loonuru to train alone with Malfurion. He felt a hand on his shoulder as he paused before the shimmering trees that did not cover the rise the Archdruid had made his camp upon. "Hold a moment, Laronar. Where do you intend to go?"

He met the Archdruid's gaze evenly, and saw him flinch under the hardness of it. For some reason, that felt more than a little satisfying. "I am going to enhance my own craft, and the tools I will need for whatever war we are called to next." He shrugged the hand off his shoulder, ready to stride forward into the unknown, but paused, and turned to Malfurion. "I have never believed it is my place to intrude on your personal business Shan'do...but it has been over three thousand years since last you walked the waking world's lands. From what little gossip I hear...your mate misses you, and three millennia of training is more than enough for a well earned, if brief, respite I think. Just something to consider, once you have finished here."

* * *

The other druid regarded him for a long time, and as the seconds ticked by, Laronar began to worry that he'd finally overstepped. But, he reasoned, _someone_ had to tell him. As far as he was aware, Malfurion had been all but isolated since breaking Vordrassil. Finally, he spoke. "Your words are...appreciated, old friend. Indeed, I cannot claim to know the Moon's power if I ignore one who is regularly blessed by it. I will return to the waking world soon for a lesson. Travel safely, Stormclaw."

The two druids bowed, and then parted. Laronar felt Ashamane as he strode boldly into the wilds of the Dream. She knew what he intended, and guided him to where the other Wild Gods resided. First, was Ursol. He found the magically inclined bear in a mirror of what the Grizzly Hills had once looked like, before Andrassil was planted, and shifted through several layers of the Dream, an even more difficult process while still corporeal, until he found the right one. A more recent version, this layer of the ephemeral realm depicted an unbroken Andrassil, and the spirits of deceased Furbolgs walked the area in peace, giving him nods of respect as he sought out their master.

He described to the wise old bear what he intended, and after completing a series of semi-meaningless tasks for the Ancient that evidently greatly aided his people, the bear agreed to empower his kilt with the strength of both brothers, as Ashamane had. A minor blessing by all accounts, but still one very much treasured, as it would strengthen his bear form, and enhance his natural defenses in all the others.

* * *

He continued his walk, then guided always by Ashamane's wisdom. He found Aviana, and with her the patron of owls. The two gave a similar enhancement, and promised that his form would remain a swift, silent hunter until the end of his days. Not surprisingly, the owl and Ashamane got along, for both were night hunters that valued silent kills. Once he departed from Shaladrassil's vestige on the Dream plane, for that was where Aviana now resided as she recovered, he sought out other Ancients.

Tortolla and Agamaggan gave what they deemed worth giving, marking his garment with similar paw marks. The power of each Wild God complemented the other's nicely, and he began to understand why such blessings seemed common amongst his fellow Archdruids. When he finally came upon Malorne, or rather, those who served the revered father of Cenarius, they had offered instead to enhance what Ashamane had given his gauntlets, to make the enchantment as immortal as he was, tied to his very life essence. He made sure that they would bond with the essence of whoever took them up after his eventual demise, and departed after profusely thanking the wise stag spirits.

He ventured on in the Dream without a direction then, as Ashamane had led him to every Ancient she knew of. She warned him that seeking others was to court death, but seek them he did. After hours, or perhaps days, of fruitless searching, he found a quiet place to meditate, and water that seemed safe to drink, according to the nearby fay dragons.

* * *

He thought for a long while then. On life, nature, Balance of course, and then finally, he pondered the Dream itself. Why did the Makers refer to it as a Dream? The green dragons had always been tight lipped about the mysterious figures from prehistory, but even the Kaldorei had discovered traces of the ancient past. It was impossible not to, with an empire that spanned the world.

He pondered the concept of gods then, naturally comparing the Wild Gods to Elune. Some seemed much weaker by comparison, but Malorne, perhaps, could match her. She was said to have taken one of the White Stag as a consort, to create Cenarius after all, and he doubted courting a Goddess or an Aspect was an easy task. Nobody ever really agreed on who Malorne had gone with, though. The green dragons had, in his experience, been of the opinion that it did not matter who'd mothered the Forest Lord. He shared close ties to all three of them, for his visage had adorned their temples right beside the Moon's.

He sighed heavily, and muttered, mostly to himself before toking on his cat-head pipe. "Where is the god that embodies the Wilds? Where is the god who won't judge me for embracing my nature?"

* * *

His hackles rose then, as quite suddenly, and from seemingly nowhere, multiple familiar and yet powerful presences suddenly filled the small glade. The fay dragons blinked away, more by instinct than anything, and he looked around at the familiar faces, realizing now that he'd spoken with each at one point or another. Some, rather recently. Their paw marks flared in their presence.

Ashamane was grinning, grooming a paw beside Goldrinn, who drifted forward. His form was akin to Cenarius' in that it was more energy than physical matter, which made sense, for most here had fallen to the demons, on the waking plane. _"I did warn you, didn't I. The Moon is a judgemental mistress."_ The wolf snorted, irritated, and many of the others gathered, who by his recollection also held the Moon in high esteem, glared at the arrogant wolf.

The large midnight cat growled softly at the wolf, and all hushed as the panther spoke. _"You should not encourage this. Your useless quarrel has now weakened one of the world's defenders. No matter what we teach him, he will be less than he could be. That is the Goddess' punishment."_ The burning eyes shifted to her pupil, who had a sudden urge to pack his pipe away. _"You should be on your knees before that Moon Priestess she so loves, asking forgiveness. But you're too proud for that."_

* * *

Laronar glanced around at each of those gathered, smirking slightly as the Owl winked at him. Goldrinn barked back at the panther. _"None should be expected to apologize for their own nature. It is absurd, and You know it. She would turn on you as well, were you to truly bare your fangs."_

The sleek cat continued licking her paw, but one eye, the closest to the wolf, opened, and the others, Laronar included, stiffened as they felt her killing intent. That feeling prey got when it was locked in the eyes of a Nightsaber. _"Unlike some, I only bare my fangs when I intend to kill…"_

The wolf gave a low snarl, and the panther's lips pulled back as she hissed in return, but before the bickering could devolve into a brawl, Laronar stood, and spoke loudly, physically, the non-mental words cut through everything else. "Enough! Is there a point to all of...this? Why have you all come? Tell me that at least, before you start weakening your dream avatars in pointless combat."

* * *

The two bickering Ancients shared a look, and the wolf huffed, in his manner of laughter. _"Fine. He is right, there are more important things we must be doing."_ He stepped up to the druid, crossing the water of the small oasis easily to loom over the now darker toned elf. _"For eight millennia, you have shown a dedication to defending the natural world, to helping us, and others like us who could not be here, that has not been seen amongst your kind for...a very long time. You have done so at the expense of the Moon's blessing. As I promised...the power of the Wilds will not abandon you as Elune has."_

With that, the massive wolf turned his head to the sky, and howled, summoning forth another presence, one the feral druid had contacted only once, and only briefly. He felt the power of the Wilds from before surge within him again, and then all at once, he knew exactly why his instinct had driven him to defend the world, and the Dream. He also knew, and accepted, that he would be defending Her until the day he finally passed on. He could think of no better way to go. Orange-gold and blue power suffused his form as the Ancients bowed their heads to the overpoweringly massive mental presence the wolf Ancient had summoned in their midst.

Laronar looked at his right hand, covered in Nordrassil's bark, and clawed. He curled it into a fist, and placed it over his heart. "I...understand. What we do...we do for Azeroth."

* * *

 **Ahn'Qiraj - Silithus**

* * *

Some people are born without any kind of greater plan for their existence. Some, find themselves involved in such a plan over the course of said existence, but every once in a while, there are those who are born at the whim of entities beyond their scope of knowledge and understanding. Such entities, manifestations of the Void itself, are quite adept at planning, and so it was that as Azeroth stirred in the Dream, a curious young druid, the offspring of one who served the Old Gods well, was wandering in dark places, best left untouched, at the behest of his father. They were attempting to regrow Silithus, and return to the Circle's good graces. By no coincidence did these two events occur almost simultaneously, for the Old Ones had seen the Timeways, and knew the ultimate fate of this planet. Or at least, the one they desired.

Yessendra, one of several druids who had been ordered to accompany Valstann on their efforts to revitalize Silithus, let the Starfire fly, and it brought down the giant wolf-faced stone colossus that had come to life after they'd entered these strange ruins. It had chased them far, but they had weakened it with numerous attacks as they ran, and finally, it fell.

As it did, a low hum filled the air, and the druids shifted shape, running from the ruined city, and darting across the sand as a pack of cheetahs, towards the small outpost they'd made just outside the ruins. The sky above the strange, unknown city filled with millions of dark, winged shapes as the entity below them drove them into a frenzy of madness, with a single purpose.

Retake the world, for C'thun.

* * *

As the elves watched, more giant wolf-faced statues began to rise from the sands of the ruined city, and each of them towered over the walls as the insectoid things encircling them spiraled into the air. Valstann spoke, eyeing the absurd number of massive enemies. They had barely managed to take down one, and that was after losing their Druid of the Claw in sacrifice. "Yessendra...go back to the Hold...warn my father...tell him to call for aid. We...we're going to need everyone."

Yessendra gave a growl of acknowledgement, and then sprinted for the Cenarion Hold.

Though word of the insect horde's coming had been given, many who journeyed with Falstann had died, usually in a stalling tactic, until they were inevitably overrun. The insects, whatever they were, outnumbered the elves in the area by a great margin, and they ran unchecked over Silithus, quickly forming new hives as they did.

* * *

Fandral was not idle, however. The Cenarion Hold had, by way of its Lord's authority, access to Moon Priestesses, druids of various sects, and of course, the primarily male infantry, heavy-armored soldiers of the Circle who, while lacking druidic powers, more than made up for that with their glaive-wielding prowess.

Elven forces that received Fandral's call for aid throughout much of Feralas, namely panther-mounted Sentinels, climbed the treacherous mountains into the area known as Silithus, and almost immediately, found themselves fighting through the swarm, with some success, and minimal casualties, though many had deep cuts by the time they arrived at the Hold.

Fandral had put them to work, as their own forces had already formed battle lines against the swarm, and as the eastern forces grouped with the aid from the west, the apparent leader of these numerous bugs found himself losing soldiers, rapidly. The fighting went on for days, but eventually, the elves managed to push further south than they had since the conflict began.

It was as the spires of the city they had learned was called Ahn'Qiraj came into view that Fandral Staghelm received the information that would seal his fate. Southwind Village, the only elven village in this sandy death pit, was under attack. Though it was now behind their front lines, Fandral knew they needed to send aid to that vital outpost that held and supported the eastern flank's soldiers, and ultimately, that aid was given in the form of his own son.

* * *

Days passed, and the elves saw only the ground variants of the bugs, their winged leaders, those the ground-pounders seemed directed by when they were hovering above the field, remained unnervingly absent. Fandral used the brief respite in the sudden and massive assault to call for yet more aid, but unfortunately for him, it would come too late.

After three days, they learned where Valstann and his forces had ended up. Their general, the one the Silithid called Rajaxx, demonstrated to Fandral Staghelm exactly what kind of war this was going to be. Hive'Regal and Hive'Zora's forces, now melded and even at that moment reinforcing the main swarm, thundered down against the elven infantry, and purple limbs alongside sprays of blood filled the air. The lines buckled, and the disheartened Staghelm was forced to retreat.

* * *

The elve's tactics were thankfully well adapted to facing an enemy that was legion, and constantly on the advance, and as with the demons, they were driven back hard, wherever the bugs met them in decent numbers. The Sentinel army had made way for the Un'goro Crater as the first reports of the enemy came in. They intended to use their skill in the trees to fight off the hordes, and provide shelter for the druids and priestesses fleeing the area.

The few living Priestesses of the Moon covered the Cenarion force's retreat, and their spells wrought a massive toll amongst the newly awakened bugs. Eventually, all the elves had retreated into the crater, and whatever controlled the bugs pulled them back. The Sentinels began ordering those who yet lived, and new reinforcements arrived by the hour, all of them hiding in the gloom of the ancient trees that seemed to repel the bugs.

* * *

 **The Dreamgrove - Val'sharah**

* * *

Laronar stumbled out of the Dreamway, muttering to himself in an older elven dialect, still pondering what he'd been shown. He looked up as he heard a familiar roar, from Delandros Shimmermoon, as usual in his cat shape. He had asked how Laronar had gotten so strong with his own, and aside from having eight thousand years of practice, more or less, on him he'd said that spending time in the form strengthened the bond between elf and animal, and that fighting the urge to be one, was pointless.

The sleek panther shifted as he landed from one of the higher branches above the portal with the same gracefulness most cats had. He bowed. "Shan'do Stormclaw...finally. We have been unable to reach you. You are needed. Now."

Laronar slowly arched an eyebrow, and then looked at the Dreamgrove. It was far more lively than he'd ever seen it, and over the past several millennia, after all the shaping and necessary building had finished, it had taken on an almost serene silence. That was gone now, as a sloth of bears rumbled by them, through the portal. They were outfitted with bark armor, and Laronar sighed. Only one thing could disturb the peace like this. "Who are we fighting this time? Did the satyrs under Shaladrassil finally wake up?"

* * *

Delandros looked alarmed. "The what!? No, not...satyrs...probably? Are there really Satyrs beneath it? They shouldn't be anywhere near the tree! They're dem-"

Laronar held up a hand. "I know. I taught you most of what you know of demons, remember? Though I am impressed you found that Succubus coven in Azsuna. They're hard to track by smell."

The Sharpclaw smirked. "Mine wasn't. So you don't know about the war, then? You were in the Dream for the past week." Like the other druids, he too was dressed for war, and it seemed that this time, their respective units would be sharing a set of armor. Leafy pauldrons of familiar, if slightly more serrated leaves now adorned the Ashen druid, and he had a kilt that was green and brown, though different in design from Laronar's. His hands also sported similar, if less bulky, wooden gauntlets that ended in impressive claws, and while his chest was lacking a shirt, the Ashen had evidently opted for some kind of chest protection, in the form of criss-crossing leather straps with various druidic runes inscribed on the leather.

* * *

Laronar nodded, smirking at how well his apprentice had copied his own attire, and still managed to keep his personal influences as well. "I suppose I was. Tell me. Who is heading this...new war?"

"Shan'do Stormrage and the High Priestess know of the danger. Shan'do woke up several months ago, and not long after, Archdruid Staghelm called for help, from Silithus. The world is again in danger of being overrun by darkness. It has fallen to us to defend Kalimdor." Delandros handed him a similar pair of leather straps, and Laronar sighed, putting them over his chest. They were rather comfortable though, for chest attire, and they enhanced what little magic he had access to still.

"Malfurion will always have my strength, should he need it, but I wouldn't be surprised if Fandral was the reason behind this whole conflict. I told you, and now you have your proof. He's doomed to be drawn into trouble." Laronar continued eyeing the various sects of druids, each garbed differently, but appropriately for their chosen specialization. He spied the Druids of the Moon, and a familiar figure among them, like the others, adorned with an appropriate blending of natural wood, and moon related sigils.

* * *

Laronar looked around Delandros then as yet more druids moved through the portal, presumably towards the tree Fandral had planted in Feralas. "Where are the others? And Thaon?"

Delandros chuckled. "They're around. As for Shan'do Moonclaw, he was ordered to stay here, and train yet more Ashen. Malfurion tapped you to lead us in the war effort, but you were nowhere to be found."

Laronar kept shifting his eyes around Delandros, and finally, he understood. He let out a sharp whistle, one he usually used to call the Sharpclaws, and those who wished to be among their number, to attention. Over thirty pairs of burning amber orbs melted out of the shadows, and the branches around the Dreamway portal were filled with lounging cats, many of whom were smirking down at him, an unusual look on a cat, but an obvious sign said cat was a druid. He laughed, and gave them all an unsettling grin. "You've all gotten much better at hiding. Good. Who has the Fangs?"

Delandros produced a pouch then, and withdrew the faintly glowing 'daggers' from it. He offered them to his mentor. "Ashamane wishes you to wield them, for this. She feels it will be an appropriate test for them, and, she wishes them to be sung about in legends. She claims such a thing will ultimately help us recruit more Ashen, in the future."

* * *

Laronar smirked, eyes flaring as he took up the fangs of his patron. The amber glow went from faintly producing light, to burning with the natural power of the world. He embraced Ashamane's spirit as he felt her stir, and nodded, placing the weapons on the belt responsible for holding up the heavy kilt. "Ten of you will remain to guard the Dreamway portal. Delandros, tell Thaon to send the rest of the Ashen he's deemed ready, as well. If Fandral is begging aid, then the threat is serious. Otherwise, his ego would never allow him to call for help. Once you're done, meet us in Feralas...we'll be linking up with the Sentinels first. They'll know how to use us better than Fandral will."

Shimmermoon saluted, and flew off with speed towards the east, and Ashamane's final rest. Laronar shifted forms, and trotted towards the edge of the Dreamgrove then. He paused at the edge of the verdant woods, and let out an impressive roar, startling several Dryads, also geared for war, as the sound echoed through much of northern Val'sharah. Satisfied, he turned back, and headed again for the portal.

* * *

To the druids, the Ashen Alpha gave a single command. It came out as a purr, but one each gathered understood. He sat patiently by the Dreamway portal as the Sharpclaws trotted through. Familiar as he was with wartime procedure, he knew many of the four thousand or so Sharpclaws they had on hand were likely already in the field, with assassination targets. He fully intended to have his own squad of them however, as he had trained them, and knew their uses better than Shandris or Fandral. He only hoped those who'd arrived first hadn't been thrown uselessly onto the front lines. That was for Druids of the Claw, the Ashen were made for stealth.

Laronar waited patiently by the portal, until he felt the presence he'd been waiting for. Storm, his ever loyal companion and friend, had come when he'd called. The massive cat had been busy building his harem over their time spent in Val'sharah, and several of his children trotted beside him, all young, and eager to test their ferocity in battle. Ashamane had been pleased by the rise in the Nightsaber population, as she was pleased now. With the Fangs in Laronar's possession, his cat form, ever a spitting image of herself, was almost as large as the Stormsaber, and the two veteran cats followed after their allies through the portal with the pride of near-feral Nightsabers right behind them.

* * *

They broke into a run once in the Dreamway, and spied other druids, usually in elven forms, all heading for Feralas as well. A familiar face guarded the gate to the jungle wilds, and Keeper Remulos arched an eyebrow as the pride of very large saber-cats strode through the crowd of other druids, most of whom still seemed like novices.

Storm wasted no time in brushing up against the Keeper, and purring, loudly. It was an unnerving sound, almost like a roar, but the large cat's jaws were closed, and the lips had formed into a good approximation of a smile. Remulos scratched the Stormsaber beneath his chin, and nodded at Laronar. "Your Ashen are waiting for you...though I will be honest, I do not know what stealth will accomplish in this conflict. It is much like the war against the Legion."

A faint orange aura rose from Laronar's black mane, not unlike a lion's, and the Keeper raised both eyebrows as he saw the Ancient, and then bowed his head with a nod of respect. _"Stealth played a larger role in that war than you know, Keeper. Though I will grant you, it was not always an option. A master hunter adapts."_

* * *

The aura faded back into her chosen vessel, and the amber eyes of her chosen druid resumed blazing with waves of orange. One growl, and the Stormsabers rejoined the large cat. The two leading them lowered their heads with respect, and moved on through the portal. Remulos glanced back at the crowd of other, much younger druids, who had a fair balance of awed and worried expressions. Awe at feeling an Ancient amongst them, and worry for what enemy warranted waking up such a powerful druid.

Remulos spoke, and the words reached each of them, shocking them back to the task at hand. "Come, Children of the Stars! Do you want to live forever?"

The immortal Kaldorei shared a nervous chuckle, and began moving through the portal.

* * *

 **Several Days Later - Un'Goro Crater**

* * *

With the local inhabitants of the crater pacified by the younger druids, who were maintaining their disinterest in the massive elven army hiding among them, the Kaldorei had fortified the narrow path into Silithus, but the swarms had been seemingly dormant for many days. Most of the newer arrivals hadn't even seen the threat yet. Malfurion, while apparently awake, remained absent, as did Tyrande. There was one they sent in their stead, however.

Laronar and the Ashen had taken to sleeping in the trees, ready to jump awake if and when the winged 'Qiraji' as they had been termed, appeared. They would herald the first sign of the Silithid waves, according to the survivors. Being the commander in charge, he kept to a lower, yet no less sturdy branch as he napped in his cat form, and waited for the battle every instinct he had said was coming, and soon. The low, ominous hum his sharp ears picked up did not cease once in all the time they'd been waiting.

A new sound intruded over the hum, and he was grateful, for the tones had an almost hypnotic rhythm to them. The other Ashen blinked awake, as they too had been alert, and yet almost hypnotized by the sound only they were picking up. He leapt down with a satisfying slam against the ground, and his enhanced form felt none of it. He was itching to test it in combat.

* * *

He shifted then, and bowed to their new arrival, who was flanked by a pair of Sentinels that, at a second glance, the druid found he recognized. They'd visited his forest in ages past, and he made a note to check in on the old hut. The three shared a moment of shock as they saw his darkened skin, and feral leanness. He crossed his arms, and waited for the higher ranked Ranger General to start.

"I'd heard you'd fallen afoul of Elune but Laronar...this is…" His eyes narrowed as he stared her down, and her long ears fell back, by instinct, before the predatory gaze. "Right...we need you and your Ashen in flight forms, ready to divebomb any leaders that appear...according to Archdruid Staghelm, they only arrive when victory is certain, though he has reportedly taken a few who were bold enough to seize an early advantage after Southwind down already. The bugs under them became almost dormant. Easily dispatched. If you manage to take out a target, take out its troops, too."

The feral druid smirked, and the clawed gauntlets shifted. "Not a problem. We'll need cover in the sky, though."

A slight smirk appeared under the dark purple war helm. "There are Druids of the Talon, but not enough... I have the Sentinels, if you have the Hippogryphs."

Laronar glanced around, and then looked towards the northwest, namely Feralas. "I can provide you with willing allies. How many do you need?"

The Ranger General glanced up at the tree full of burning amber orbs, each belonging to a sleek Nightsaber outfitted for war. Many had bark armor similar to the bears, but they'd also fashioned metal coverings for their claws. Being relatively simple to forge, they'd crafted their own sets, after being taught some rudimentary smithing from the Highmountain, who were surprisingly adept at it. More so than their nomadic brethren.

Then, she glanced to the tree boughs to either side of the one Laronar was perched in, eyes brightening slightly. "My, you have been busy...bring as many as you can, and we'll find a purpose for the others."

* * *

The Ashen worked together to summon their flying allies, guided by Laronar, as he had when he'd taught them. He found the Wild God who spoke for their race, as they sat in a circle beneath their trees, meditating, and begged his aid. They did not receive a direct answer, but roughly four hours later, hundreds of winged figures appeared in the sky, coming from Feralas, and soaring straight into the crater. A few were bold, and tested Silithus' skies, and those few were subsequently never heard from again.

As the Sentinels mounted the wild, and sometimes shy beasts, a few among them with Elune's gift calmed them, enough to ride, at least. The Ashen then took smaller animal shapes, and once they were settled, the Sentinels ascended into the sky. The plan from Fandral, Shandris, and the other associated minds leading this war, was to surprise the bugs with powerful druidic allies when they attempted to ambush the hippogryph riders.

With the skies hopefully cleared, the ground forces would charge from the crater, and begin the push to retake the Cenarion Hold, and Southwind Village without having acid spit upon them. From there, they could push a line, and keep the bugs from spreading across Kalimdor. According to Shandris, the western mountains had kept her naval forces from aiding, but those who could cross such barriers already had, and were preventing the bugs from gaining any territory in Feralas. The wilds needed to be protected, for the druids and priestesses had agreed, the land around the Silithid hives possessed a dark, ancient taint not a single one of them knew how to combat.

* * *

Laronar found himself aboard Jai'alator, as Shandris insisted he'd be riding with her in this assault, and he hadn't argued. He knew her rank usually got her whoever she wanted on her various missions, and he was glad that his current form, a fluffy white rabbit with rather intimidating fangs and burning amber eyes, kept him from being able to converse.

That didn't stop the Ranger General from talking to him though. She verbally tore him out as they ascended, and the rabbit ears flinched as they flew over the sands. She was furious for Malfurion, and Tyrande, had confirmed that he'd genuinely earned the Moon Goddesses' ire, and such a thing was not quickly forgiven.

Laronar endured the shouting, and when the first of the bugs rose to meet them, he shifted forms before anyone else, and met the flying enemies with the shriek only his owl form could make. It had grown larger after his time spent in the Dream. It made short work of the bugs, thanks in no small part to the metal claws that adorned the natural ones. Ashamane had showed him how to draw a measure of defense from her artifact, and the result had been, consistently, metallic armor that shielded the natural claws or talons from damage, and added a measure of deadliness as well.

* * *

A hail of arrows brought down the bugs he'd missed on his first bloody pass through the swarm, and before long, the sky was chaos as druids of varying forms, though primarily Storm Crows, fought and dived through the skies. The Ashen proved their worth in keeping the riders safe, and the Sentinel's arrows brought down more than a few of the bugs with their uncanny accuracy. Druids of the Talon from the Hold joined them before long as well, filling the skies with blood and death.

Below them, a massive mound of earth, under command of Fandral Staghelm himself, was bringing his son and a cadre of Druids of the Moon, by their armor, towards the west with impressive speed. They were kept from uniting with the panther-mounted Sentinels still fighting in the west, and were stalled halfway across the desert, pinned against the northern mountains that acted as a useful, if at times irritating, barrier against those who could not fly.

Shandris and Laronar cleared their area, spreading their forces all across the north eastern part of Silithus, and they took down any aerial opponents that came to meet them. While numerous, the flying bugs had more weak points than their armored ground counterparts, but those too were falling before the massive bear form of Koda, and her own druids. They would be retaking Southwind, while the main forces, formerly of the Hold, would retake their own outpost, and prepare for a siege.

* * *

Laronar shrieked again, gaining Shandris' attention, and he awkwardly fell through the air as he pointed with a wing at Fandral's increasingly dire situation. He was more interested in helping Isoraen, but for once, he had to admit that losing the Archdruid would seriously weaken them. Fandral's sorrow had manifested as rage, and his skill over manipulating the earth had evidently grown over the intervening millennia. It was him and him alone who kept the casters safe as their spells scorched the ever encroaching bugs.

Delandros, and several other Ashen followed their Alpha as he passed by them, alongside their partnered Sentinels, who took formation behind Shandris. The bugs below, seeing themselves caught between the advancing talons from the sky, and Fandral's spells, turned to attack the aerial threat. Laronar noted their tactics, as he would've done the same in their position, to try to knock them from the sky. Unfortunately for the bugs, they did not yet know to fear Sentinels, and their leader in particular.

The druids arced up just before they met the bugs, and tore into their weaker thoraxes as they flew just above their ranks, who had taken their own equivalent of defensive positions. A hail of rocks from Fandral broke or otherwise weakened the armor, and the arrows that followed brought the Silithid down, to a bug.

The flying variants that had been harrying the Druids of the Moon were summarily torn to pieces as well. Once all was said and done, and the sand had drunk the blood of the fallen bugs, Fandral and the large owl shared a mutual nod, before Laronar returned to the sky, and Fandral led his gathered allies across the rest of the desert to reinforce the Sentinels.

* * *

Several hours later, the front line from the west came rolling towards the Hold, as the forces from the western Hive'Zora forced them into a bloody stalemate. In their frenzy to attack, eat, and then do what life did best, the largely leaderless Silithid inadvertently realized too late that the Cenarion Hold had been retaken, and the skies belonged to the elves, for the moment. The mounted Sentinels, and Fandral, turned as they linked up with priestesses and infantry from the Hold. Horns sounded, and the push towards Ahn'Qiraj began anew.

The fighting raged well into the night, which only emboldened the elves as Elune filled the sky, and her chosen people with her power, and they began to push their lines forward in a concentrated effort. At around midnight, the horns of each of Fandral's outposts sounded once more and reinvigorated those fighting as the moon blazed above the elven army, but there was one figure that remained isolated from its light.

Laronar didn't much care, as it made him less of a target. He had, slowly, figured out what the 'smart bugs' looked like, in comparison to the Silithid. They seemed to be a different kind of being altogether, but the Silithid obeyed their orders unquestioningly, and became dazed and lost, more eager to retreat, when such a leader was taken out.

* * *

The Ashen had made themselves invaluable both across the battle lines, and in the skies. Laronar had switched between both more times than he could count, adapting his form as the combat shifted, and the bugs forced them to reinforce the ground troops, or have the line buckle. No matter which he used, his metal-clad claws sliced through all of it. In his cat form, they broke through the heavy armored insects that mostly made up the front lines, and more than once, he and Storm had made a run through the center of the lines, where the elves remained weakest, giving the Sentinels on standby just enough time to reinforce them before everything broke.

Fandral told the Ashen, and the other stealth-inclined forces, that the Qiraji were to be their top priority. Nobody was entirely sure how to differentiate, as to most elves at this point, the only bug they cared about was a dead bug. The fighting went well into the night, and as the brutal heat of the morning sun rose on the exhausted elves, the bugs again retreated, and the horns sounded the time for rest had again come. After almost three straight days of pushing to the Hold and then fighting fang and claw to hold it, the elves were ready for a break, and their reinforcements, what few had been in reserve in Feralas and en route from Ashenvale, took up their watches as the war-weary fighters were given leave to do as they wished.

* * *

The Ashen had returned, alongside their hippogryph mounted allies, to the boughs of Un'Goro's trees, and the main staging area of the army. Fandral was convinced that the Cenarion Hold would not fall twice, but wiser heads than his, namely Shiromar, the Moon Priestess leading most of her sisters, had insisted that they reinforce it for the bug's inevitable counterattack.

To that end, the priestesses had attempted to Mind Control the massive saurian figures that wandered the crater, to turn them to war. Right around when the first of them broke free of such bonds, furious at being forced to serve, especially after not devouring prey that was right in front of them for several days. Saurian roars of fury roared through the encampment around the crater's volcanoes, and the tired Ashen once more leapt into the fray as Nightsabers met raptor packs, and the largest cats among them charged the larger carnivorous variant of saurian.

Even after so much bloodshed, the druids were reluctant to kill, a reluctance the war-garbed priestesses had not shared. With each death, the remaining living grew more furious, and the elves soon found their encampment on the brink of being overrun, this time by saurians.

* * *

Laronar had been forced to take down two of the three largest predators that stalked the relatively small crater near their camp, and he paused, massive fangs against the throat of the last one as he felt Ashamane stir. His eyes flared, and the saurian's eyes gained a similar glow, though it was perhaps slightly deeper orange.

A voice echoed in his head then that Laronar did not recognize, but he knew a Wild God when he heard one. This one he had not met before, though. _"Ahhh...Ashamane...I heard ya died."_ A dark chuckle followed next. _"But your power is, as always, impressive...tell me night hunter, why do your favored mortals abuse and needlessly slaughter my kin? Are they not 'vaunted defenders of nature' now?"_

Laronar roared, and at once, all the druids and saurians ceased fighting. The priestesses watched in confusion as their foes ran several yards away, and avoided any more attempts for fighting. The more eager priestesses were eventually restrained by the druids, though that did little to assuage their anger. The saurians had taken a large number of elves with their furious uprising, though nowhere near as many as the bugs did in a single hour.

He met the saurian's gaze, but raised his fangs, slightly. The predator blinked once. He was being allowed to speak. He directed his thoughts towards the Ancient, as he had many times before, and found the presence to be many, and one, all at once. There was a familiarity though, a feral nature that he couldn't help but admire. "A mere misunderstanding, wise Ancient. Our priestesses sought to use your children to hunt the bugs to the west. Surely, you have felt them stir. I believe they had every intention of keeping them healed, and then returning them home, once the war is ended. This is a tactic we often use with the more...violent species of the land, but always, we are its defenders."

* * *

Another chuckle, though this one was more dark than humorous. _"It is custom to Ask a Loa for such aid, even among the star elves, is it not?"_ The glowing eyes shifted to the faint head of Ashamane that had, as before, risen from the cat form empowered by her Fangs. _"This is why I prefer the trolls, sister. Why Bethekk prefers them too. These mana-mad elves are arrogant at their core."_

 _"You are not wrong, Lord of the hunt...but they are mine to protect all the same."_ The panther shifted back into the druid, and the eyes of every Ashen present around the mostly wrecked encampment burned with her power, thanks in no small part to their proximity to her Fangs. _"Do not allow your children to harm mine, and there will be no conflict. You should send them to aid. These bugs...they are an older affliction, not one caused by mortal foolishness. They taint what they touch with Shadow."_

Laronar let the massive saurian up, narrowly avoiding a snap from the jaws as he uncannily dodged backwards, and stared the predator down. Individually, he seemed well and truly done with the elves, and anything to do with them, but his Ancient, or Loa, apparently, still needed him. _"You speak the truth...my children will follow your chosen's commands...until the threat is passed. And then the elves will Leave…"_

Laronar bowed, promised it would be so, but the ancient presence was already gone. He began peppering Ashamane with hundreds of questions. Who was that? What hunt was he lord of? All of them? Were there other 'Loa' Ancients out there? How many empowered the Zandalari? Did they have druids too? The panther sated his curiosity with what passing knowledge she had, and a name.

* * *

He was Gonk, a respectable hunter, and in her time, a contemporary of the black panther. Compared to most of the Ancients the Zandalari served, she claimed Gonk was the most worldly, and progressive of the bunch. The others, she claimed, had grown fat and greedy on the devout, and sometimes perverse, methods of worship the trolls engaged in, but for all their strange customs, it had certainly made the Wild Gods of Zandalar rather powerful.

Thoroughly exhausted, the Ashen and their flying allies, which now included a cadre of fresh Druids of the Talon from the Moonglade itself, rested above the mostly ruined camp as the Sentinels and menial workers spent the day rebuilding the smashed fortifications while those stationed at the Hold stayed awake through the scorching heat of the day, waiting for the next inevitable wave of bugs, and death.


	15. The Unstoppable Swarm

**The Unstoppable Swarm**

* * *

 **Chamber of the Emperors - Ahn'Qiraj**

* * *

The Eye appeared before them, and once more, they knelt before the awakening god of the Qiraji, Silithid, and even hapless the mortals, unaware of his magnificence. C'thun.

 **It has been seventy cycles. What delays the work?**

Vek'nilash spoke, as he was the one who was, technically, safe from the Old One's power, should he grow angry. But his dear brother had a short tongue and a hot head. Especially after so much failure. "The contents of Zora, and Regal are not enough. The elves can match them with large area attacks, and their bears focus their simple minds while the others cut them to pieces. Even against our Qiraji, their roars prove more powerful, and, we are unable to take the Crater in which their base lies. It wards away those blessed by You, great one."

* * *

A pause. Then. **Send the Titanforged.**

The brothers shared a glance, and Vek'lor began chittering excitedly, as he always did before certain victory.

The silence stretched into another pause. They'd almost risen, when the voice's power forced them, with more than a bit of pleasure, back down to their positions of servitude. **Go around the Crater. The Titans are gone.**

And then, so was their God.

Horns sounded throughout Ahn'Qiraj, and once more, the Anubisath marched to war, supported by the additional forces of Hive'Vekniss, the 'main' hive of the Qiraji, and the one that produced the largest number of the fierce flying warriors.

* * *

 **Border of Un'goro Crater - Silithus**

* * *

The horns called for retreat, and Laronar's sharp ears heard Fandral, once more using several choice swears he needed to remember for later, taking a position on the mountain ridges as once more the wall of insects and their winged overlords covered the skies around the crater. Few dared to go above it, and those that did were taken down by the winged inhabitants who were, to the Qiraji's growing confusion, aiding the elves far more than coincidence would allow.

The Anubisath had broken their lines easily, and though a great many of the stone slaughterers fell, their tainted remnants seeding all across the sands of Silithus, there had been more than enough to drive the elves back into the Un'Goro Crater from their hard won outposts. Then, fear entered their hearts as they saw the intelligent bugs start to circumvent the Crater entirely, leaving a wall of winged warriors to prevent their heavily decimated aerial forces from pursuing.

The obsidian giants took up positions on the crater's rim, and did not appear to have the same reluctance to enter, though the further in they went, the easier they were to kill. Some, had even gone mad and started attacking their allies, before then facing the elves while speaking some strange tongue, and repeating the word "Ra" over and over. Fandral Staghelm had personally put those few down himself with a massive earthen interpretation of his fist. It was a new spell, and one that had thus far proven effective in helping continue this war, by keeping the bugs from breaking their lines every other minute.

* * *

For Laronar's part, his Ashen had been relatively lucky compared to some of the other druid packs that had been caught up in the war. If one could call losing half their number, luck. The elves were hurting, and this latest offensive had depleted what fighting forces they'd received from Nighthaven and the Dreamgrove.

It was becoming clear that this war would be an 'all or nothing' fight if they wanted to keep the bugs contained. The hour had arrived to call in Shan'do Stormrage, and the High Priestess. Staghelm had been outnumbered and outmatched from the start.

"They're flanking the Crater!"

Both Archdruids caught the female Sentinel's warning, and Laronar moved. No other unit had the numbers left to repel an advance on the mountainous and southern tip of the continent. Not in the air. Those who could, followed.

* * *

Upon hearing about their newfound saurian 'allies', Fandral had wanted to march them onto the front line, and while several Devilsaurs had salivated at the idea, many others had not. Laronar had not forced them, and even with the aid of the saurids, they'd only managed to get a few miles beyond the Crater's edge, before the Anubisaths had appeared, and broken all of them.

He called on their aid now, sharing the urgency that he'd been suppressing. He'd had a feeling things would turn worse before they got better. Pterrordax and raptors began swarming through the south of the Crater, and battle broke out as the skies were filled once more with blood.

He soon saw the mistake of mixing wild allies with regular forces, as the saurians fought with savagery unmatched, seemingly enhanced by the strange environment they'd grown in. Even with their army camped in the Crater, the elves had little time to explore it. That lack of reconnaissance came back to bite them.

* * *

One particularly large pterrordax, that was also somehow sparking with the power of lightning, cut a swathe through the sky wherever she flew. The clever saurian dipped back into the Crater's protective influence after each pass, but on the latest, she found herself swarmed. Before Laronar, or any of the other engaged Ashen or Druids of the Talon could aid the powerful creature, the flying Qiraji tore holes in her wings, despite being constantly blasted with electricity, and brought the flying saurian down.

Laronar promptly tore one pair of wings from one of the more humanoid, and apparently female Qiraji, letting the fall end her, and followed after the pterrordax. She had brought the bugs inside the Crater with her fall, and he knew all too well how fast they could infect the land if they were left to do so.

He came upon her smoking corpse beneath the boughs of the jungle, but still nestled well within the mountains of the southern part of the crater that were even more treacherous than the northern edge's. She had landed upon some kind of stone pylon, surrounded by blue, glowing crystals. The strange pylons around the Crater had caught the notice of the army, but had proven little more than slightly magical distractions.

* * *

The druid shifted to his cat form, and tore through the majority of the swarm that had brought the creature down. The few that did not outright die would soon, as the bleeding wounds his claws left ensured their death.

The creature leading them proved tougher, and she and the large panther faced off before the smoking corpse of the saurian. He'd seen bugs like her before, they referred to her kind of bug as a 'Colossus', and that caste was usually the one leading ground charges, but some had, apparently, proven they could take to the air as well, for short distances.

She charged, and he left her bleeding and wounded for it, following up on his success with a flurry of shredding claws that ultimately crushed her brain, making everything else useless. He roared, thinking he'd won, but then glanced around, and noticed the numerous tunnelling bugs already infecting the earth, preparing it for a hive.

The large cat moved, slashing through most of them, before being surrounded both in the air between the massive, ancient trees and on the ground by the swarm of the Silithid and Qiraji forces. They were, finally, making ground in the Crater, it seemed.

* * *

One of the 'female' bugs flew towards him, chittering as it spoke. It took him a minute to realize it was laughing, and indeed, most of the bugs were copying her. His eyes narrowed as she spoke. "The Crater iz ourz now, mortal. Fleeeee before the might of C'thun!"

He'd leapt for her throat midway through her speech, and tore it out with the saber fangs just as she finished. His victory was again short lived, as the trees of the surrounding jungle cracked and groaned. The ground shook, and he knew that tremor. He'd felt it on the sand, the first time they'd taken the field.

Arrows filled the area immediately around him. Arrows burning with moonlight. He half expected them to burn him, but their mistress' aim was true as ever. She hit only bugs, and before the light of the Goddess, their foul taint burned away.

He glanced over to see Shandris covering him, firing even as she shouted, "Hurry up, fuzzface! We're pulling back!"

* * *

The Anubisaths proved somewhat vulnerable to the arrows as well, and held off on charging into their spread of death. They knew this archer, for the cunning constructs took note of all the elves that had managed to slay their kin, and they also knew her attack would eventually run out of steam.

A roar shook the area, withdrawing the surviving druids and other aerial forces that had backed them up with what they could give, and simultaneously causing the bugs to flee in terror, back towards their hives. The giants seemed unaffected by it, and took up a position around the part of the Crater that was, apparently, now under their influence. The locals who tried to remove them, died, and once more the taint of Ahn'Qiraj spread.

The forming hive drew much of the bug's attention, as it was in their nature to put the creation of such a thing as a first priority. Their forces were essentially stalled, for the moment, as they reinforced what they had claimed.

* * *

It gave the elves enough time to flee into Tanaris, though that was as good as a death sentence. Un'Goro had at least been humid. The desert, much like Silithus, was totally dry, and unforgiving with its heat. Laronar found Staghelm sitting on a dune. He was exhausted, as they all were, but the shadows around his eyes made his hackles rise. He could never figure out why. As novice druids they'd never had an issue. Only in later centuries had the laudable elven elder begun to embrace ideas that were, at best, racist. Fandral pulled back the green hood that sported, for show, a pair of blessed antlers from one of Malorne's favored, and met the other druid's gaze with a scowl that had become the norm in all their unfortunate interactions. "What."

Laronar crossed his arms, and Shandris came up behind him. A priestess joined as well with nods of respect to each of them, and soon, the exhausted army coalesced around their eldest surviving figureheads. They'd seen war before, and lived. Sticking to them meant a higher chance of survival. Probably. "We need to move, Fandral. We can't survive in this desert. It's as good as theirs. There are Tauren tribes in Thousand Needles. We can seek their aid, food perhaps, as we pass through to Feralas."

The scowl deepened. "I do not listen to _your_ commands, stray cat. I will not abandon southern Kalimdor to-"

Laronar snarled in irritation. "The south of Kalimdor is lost! We know how we fare in desert combat against the bugs. Listen, oh Fist of the Earth. The tremors. They are coming, even now. Regrouping is our only remaining option." He gave the Archdruid his best sneer. "Unless you can manifest an oasis out of a desert."

* * *

There was a silence, and more than a few O shaped mouths as the glare the Archdruids shared burned with genuine hate. Then, the ground began shaking. They swore, in unison, surprised at the sudden syncricity. The sky darkened with a familiar sand cloud, and obsidian wolf-faced giants strode across the sands towards the remnant of the army that had stalled them for so long.

The Qiraji could appreciate a strong foe as much as any of their kin, but they all shared a unified understanding. The world would be C'thun's, and nothing was going to stop that. A sandstorm manifested from nothing, and the surviving elves' remaining courage broke as they glimpsed a single, terrible Eye in the sand, looming above the distant bug city. The line of Colossi types and Anubisaths that had made up their front for the majority of the second offensive began chanting their God's name in their strange, buzzing tongue as they charged the fleeing elves.

What little they had left in the way of siege weapons was abandoned, and they followed Staghelm, as he claimed he knew a place that would aid them, maybe, and had refused to say more of who this aid would be coming from.

* * *

 **The Caverns of Time - Tanaris**

* * *

"No. We do not meddle in the affairs of...lesser creatures."

The negative, and slightly insulting, answer rang through the ears of the huddled elven army that, in total, now only numbered a few thousand. Not one of their specialized forces was above fifty percent strength, and the survivors were flagging. Fandral had wanted to come here, to the Caverns of the Bronze Dragons, to beg their aid. Laronar had wanted to head for the Tauren, but ultimately, the advancing Qiraji had forced them towards the caverns. Had they diverted to the tribes, the faster moving bugs would've caught them, and likely pushed them all the way through Thousand Needles, slaughtering Tauren and elf alike.

Fandral had been sure this was their best, last hope. Hearing it fail broke what was left of the man's confidence. He gained the visage of one who knew he, and everyone around him, was doomed. "Then Kalimdor will fall. You're the defenders of this world! You self-important lizards hesitated against the demons, too and look how that ended for you! Damn it all, _help us_!"

The massive maw of the golden beast that called himself the 'Heir of Nozdormu' came within inches of Fandral then, and the ancient beast growled, low. "What do you know of our fall, little elf...you saw only the climax of our destruction...you cannot understand what Deathwing did to us, to the blue flight." A golden claw slammed down beside the leading elven general, and the dragon tilted his head to better examine the gathered mortals before him. "As your world-breaking race knows all too well, empires rise, and empires fall...but worry not. You may weather the storm in these caverns, and in time, you will become part of their history as well…"

* * *

The dragon rumbled with laughter, as did the other bronze scaled members who'd gathered to hear the elve's request. The leading wyrm flapped into the air then, as he was evidently done talking with Fandral. The general gave the order to move out again, to leave the caverns entirely. He had no intention of residing with such arrogant lizards until the bugs arrived to tear them all apart.

It was as he had that thought, during the long spiraling walk to the surface, that he had a terrible idea. One that should've made his stomach curl in disgust, but after losing so many, chiefly his son, he knew it needed to happen, if the dragon's anger was to be roused. The elves marched quietly past the whelps chirping and playing without a care in the world by the entrance to the caverns. Sensing the distressed elves, a few flew over to comfort the soldiers, druids, and priestesses as they passed.

The tired elves gave them scritches, treats, and then sent them on their way back to their carefully watching caretakers. One of the priestesses, Shiromar, had kept those very drakes from slaughtering them outright when they'd first arrived. They gave her a nod of respect as she too walked past, looking just as defeated. Even among dragons, it seemed, the Moon Goddess was respected.

None of them questioned where Fandral was leading them now, not even Laronar. They all understood, they would be caught, and then likely torn apart like the rest of their forces. The sand simply made travel on foot too arduous. Fandral took them north of the caverns, into the mountainous area that made up their back side, and then gave the order to camp, and rest.

* * *

Shandris was the first to consult their leader on whatever this new strategy was, but as the grim-faced Fandral spoke, a look of genuine horror came over her features. Having never once seen that on her face, Laronar moved towards the two, as did the rest of the remaining leaders. He met Shandris' eyes as he came close, and his hackles rose. She was genuinely upset, but he had no earthly idea what Fandral had said to make her so. Once they'd all gathered, she told them, in hushed tones, what the Archdruid planned.

The Qiraji were on an ever-east moving course, though apparently the mountains between Feralas and Silithus had been more than enough to stop their advance. Their attention had focused on the east, and once they reached the sea, the wave of bugs would likely move ever northward in one expanding mass of death, but before that, they would need greater numbers. The only thing that could stop them were the dragons, but the greens were on another plane, a few surviving blues resided to the far, far north in their Nexus, the reds lived who-knew-where, and the bronzes had refused outright to help them, thinking this was just the latest in a long, long line of mortal calamities, and thus beneath them.

Fandral had claimed that the 'bronze lizards' did not understand the gravity of their foe, and for the prideful beings to gain that understanding, they would first need to experience loss, as they had against the demons, before they would actually get off their titanic rears to do something about the threat. Thus, the elves had retreated behind the caverns, and using them as a shield, they would weather the Qiraji, and counter when and if the dragons saw fit to do so as well. The whelps and their guardians would undoubtedly fall, but the dragons would learn first hand what the elves already knew too well. The bugs were relentless.

* * *

"You're insane…" The words came from Laronar before he could stop them. Shandris had finished outlining the barbaric plan, and silence had reigned over them. Until, naturally, Laronar had spoken.

Fandral glared back at him. "What would you have us do then, Stormclaw? They will not aid us until they have a reason to."

Most of the elves looked nauseous, after hearing the whelps they'd passed would likely be dying, but the feral druid had an entirely different look in his eye now. "You have the right idea, but the wrong method. A dragon's respect is _earned_ , not given. We should help them weather the bugs, long enough at least to hide their whelps, and when they see us flagging right in front of them, they may decide to help before we perish. The potential threat of their caverns being invaded will be more than enough to draw them out."

"And what if it isn't?" Fandral countered, "What if we all perish before they decide to intervene? The caverns will be invaded anyways, the whelps will die regardless, and we will have lost more forces that we _cannot spare_."

Laronar gave him a grim smirk. "You can spare me, can't you?" Fandral looked like he'd like nothing more than to feed his irritating contemporary to the bugs, but he shook his head anyways. "I'm not giving you a choice. I _refuse_ to sit idly by and watch young ones die. I don't care what their species is." He turned to the rest of the leaders then. "If you want to join me, i'll be waiting at the top ridge by their entrance. I'll convince them to shelter their young, once the swarm arrives. They might listen when it's right in front of them."

* * *

Laronar, and several other druids in flight form, proceeded to fly then to the top of the Cavern's entrance, alighting as a flock of grim eyed birds. One of the watchers of the whelps flapped over to Laronar's relatively flat perch on the remains of what looked unnervingly like one of his people's own buildings.

The bronze drake shifted forms then, something Laronar had seen greens do, on occasion. Laronar's own interaction with draconic entities had been limited, but he liked to think he knew enough to be properly courteous to the ancient beings. He returned to his own elven form, as the drake took on the appearance of something that certainly _looked_ elven, but seemed more like a corpse with its inferior size, musculature, and deathly pale skin tone. The male, for that was the form the drake took, bowed. "Ishnu-alah, druid. What brings you back so quickly?"

Laronar nodded at the horizon. "The oncoming swarm. Fandral bid us guard this place, just in case you and your young needed aid against them."

* * *

The now pale-skinned dragon in what apparently passed as a mortal form shrugged. "Bugs are beneath our notice. It is kind of you to worry, but we can handle what dangers the desert holds."

Laronar kept his increasingly hard amber eyes on the horizon. "You haven't experienced this one. We have. Thoroughly. Thousands of our kin litter the sands of Silithus now."

"That is unfortunate to hear...and Silithus? Hmm...what is your name, Night Elf?" Laronar gave it, and the dragon gave a slight bow, more polite than respectful. "You may call me Kairoz. I must be honest Laronar, part of me hopes what you say is true."

The elf eyed the pale humanoid. "Really? You would wish danger on your home and your charges?"

The dragon chuckled lightly, and gestured to the endless expanse of sand. "My breath manifests the power of the Timeways. Little can stand against it. Most days watching these…" He gestured to the whelps below, "Are boring. I would kill for a...change of pace."

Laronar raised a brow then. "Is watching the young not a respected duty among the bronzes? The greens argued over who got the privilege, from what I saw in the Dream, at least."

Kairoz rolled his eyes, which upon inspection were unnervingly similar to his own, save that they were blue. "The greens would...Soridormi and the others may believe this an honored duty, but…" He stretched his unfamiliar humanoid limbs, wincing as they creaked in response. "It is thankless...and boring. I could _do_ so much more, if they'd but let me guard the Timeways."

* * *

Laronar's hackles rose, and on the horizon he hadn't stopped watching for a moment, he saw the first telltale signs of the storm that ever accompanied the bugs, at least since their renewed offensive, which drove them from Un'Goro. "Well, I have good news for you Kairoz. You may just get the chance to prove yourself." His thumb and pointer finger entered his mouth, and Laronar whistled sharply. The Ashen among them took to the skies, and the Druids of the Claw, namely Koda and several others, lumbered to the slanted, narrow entrance of the caverns, forming a line between the sands, and the whelps within.

The dragon looked skeptical, until the sandstorm began growing on the horizon. It would cover the sky by the time the bugs came into sight. Once they did, for it did not take long, Kairoz leapt into the air, returning to his true shape, and flying high above his post. The two other drakes with him soon joined him, having left conversing with the mortals to the bored Kairoz.

There, they became the first of Azeroth's strongest defenders to understand exactly what kind of menace was encroaching on their home. One of the bears, Koda as it turned out, shouted up at them after briefly regaining her vocal cords with a quicking shifting of forms. "You have little time! Get the young ones to safety! Now!"

The drakes shared a look, and then the smallest of the three roared. The whelps, who had continued doing whelp things with blissful ignorance, came when the roar summoned them, and the drake herded the honking babies deeper into the cavern. A few had ignored the call, as children do, but the defenders could no longer herd them back as well.

* * *

Thundering over the sands of Tanaris, came the unstoppable swarm of Silithid, Colossi at their front. The two remaining dragons watched in horror, the same horror the elves had, when they saw the intelligent bugs form a wedge, as they sighted the obvious druidic resistance guarding the entrance to the home of the only beings that could challenge them.

An oppressive, thundering mental presence echoed in each of their minds. It could not be ignored. **Slaughter the Titan's hounds...and claim their nest as our own!**

Kairoz was not the oldest bronze dragon in the flight, but even he could recognize when foul, foreign mental entities, with enough power to penetrate a dragon's mind, posed a serious threat to the timeline. These bugs were, true to the elve's words, unnaturally empowered. They had not known by what, but as the drake vaguely sensed what fueled these minions, he snarled at his remaining guard. "Get Anachronos! Now!"

The line of bears roared as they met the Colossi bugs, and tore their front line apart. Then the next. And the one after that. But for every line of the hard-hitting bugs they smashed to gooey pulp under their paws, four more came to replace them. The sky above them filled with Qiraji, but Laronar and the Ashen were there, alongside several Druids of the Talon, who had been so decimated, they had simply merged their remaining unit with the most capable shapeshifters yet living.

* * *

Despite their efforts, the skies above the Caverns of Time became clouded with the ever-present sandstorm that aided the bugs. The bears began being pushed back, and the bugs overwhelmed them, swarming around the bulky, hard to kill foes as they went straight for the prize their God ordered them to take.

As they did, the bugs found themselves flying, and skittering, in reverse as a roar filled the air, and the power of a bronze dragon forced the threats away from his home. Grains of sand cleared the aerial warriors, and aided the flagging druids in bird forms. True to his word, Kairoz had proven he could keep the menace away...for the moment.

Several of the whelps who had remained suddenly found themselves in the midst of combat, and while the druids and their one remaining draconic ally tried to stop them, the reversing bugs, ever merciless, disemboweled the young dragons, ending their chance at a life of time travel and aged wisdom.

Kairoz roared again, and sand bathed the front lines of Silithid, reverting the imposing Colossi to mere grubs. Koda and her druids stomped them into sandy paste, but more came. Three of the unwise whelps fell to the bugs, and two managed to flee into the caverns as their defenders slowly backed towards the tiny entrance.

* * *

Laronar gave a shrill shriek, and the Ashen joined the bears on the ground as they focused the bugs in the narrow entrance, and let the stealthy cats slice into them from the sides. This, combined with Kairoz's sandy death breath, kept the uncounted mass of bugs from entering the caverns, but the defenders could not hold forever.

They took down an impressive number of the bugs, but smaller ones simply dragged the corpses away, as living warriors moved forward for their chance at glory. Laronar glanced back as he felt the ground shaking from below them. "On my mark, move _away_ from the entrance...or you will cease to be!"

The slaughter continued as the bugs battered away at the defending druids, but they pressed on, relentless. The massive form of Anachronos thundered closer, and as it did, the overwhelming mental presence faded from the defender's minds. In fact, it faded entirely, though the sandstorm remained.

* * *

The massive form of the elder wyrm shifted into incorporeal sand as it approached the entrance far too small for anything even remotely resembling a grown dragon. The sand passed over the elves, restoring their bodies to the health they'd had at the start of this defensive fight, and as the grains touched the bugs, they withered to dust, adding to the sands of Tanaris.

The elder dragon's form was large enough to tear through the first few ranks with ease, but as the golden eyes amidst the swirling sand vaguely shaped like a dragon fell upon the slaughtered whelps just outside their home, it became a cyclone, and roared with a chilling, windy noise. Anachronos, for Laronar knew it had to be him, or another easily as large, swirled through the bug's ranks, and in the space of a few minutes, they and their Anubisath allies had been reduced to nonexistence. The remaining bugs retreated, presumably heading for the Un'Goro Crater.

The elves, and Kairoz, had joined the furious sandstorm, sweeping away what it did not. As Anachronos once more became corporeal, Laronar melted out of the shadows beside him, and resumed his elven shape. "There will be more, Heir of Nozdormu. Much more."

* * *

The dragon tilted his head towards the elf, giving his right side eye a better view of the mortal addressing him. "They did not seem so...difficult…" He turned his gaze back to the horizon as Laronar pointed a finger at it.

All along the shimmering line in the distance, shapes began appearing. "Those big blobs you see. Those are their wolf-faced giants. That faint gray stretching the entire horizon behind them is their air support. The Colossi won't be visible until they come again." The dragon had turned his head back to the elf at this point. "They will keep coming, again and again, in ever larger numbers, unless we stop them. They will overrun the _entire continent._ Please, wise one. Aid us."

The dragon responded by lifting his neck higher, as high as it would let him raise his head, and then, the Heir of Nozdormu roared, and all of Tanaris shook in response. Across the dunes around them, Laronar spied several titanic pairs of wings rising into the sky, and then with a unified flap, they cleared the sand that had built around the sleeping forms of the massive dragons who'd been resting beneath the sands. The area around the Caverns of Time became a bit flatter, but the result was several wyrms around Anachronos' size aiding them.

The rest of the bronze dragons came soon after, flying into the setting sun as a swirling tornado of sand, from which, individual dragons manifested, and then landed beside their Aspect's blood. "The Prime Consort shall remain to defend the young, and keep the flight alive should we fail." The massive wyrm leapt into the air then, and circled the gathering dragons. From behind them, the rest of the elves were coming now, Fandral Staghelm at their head. "As for the rest of you...let us put an end to this menace. They will not have another chance to strike at our young!"

The gathered golden scaled dragons roared in agreement, and a sandstorm of their own began rising around them, and the elves. It moved with Anachronos as he roared, and began flying full speed towards the Qiraji menace.


	16. Defenders of Kalimdor

**Defenders of Kalimdor**

* * *

Southern Kalimdor had become far more insect-filled in recent times, but that changed as a furious storm of sand from the east charged west, removing every insect the grains touched, and returning them to naught but sand. Those who had burrowed into Un'Goro remained hidden, and covered their burgeoning hives from the dragon's aerial wrath. Thanks to elven reluctance to share information, the threat would continue to fester in the jungle crater for millennia.

Anachronos led his kin, wyrms, dragons, and even drakes. All had been summoned, for as they fought on, they recognized those who had once been constructs of the Makers, now turned to evil. Such dark entities pervaded many timezones, but Nozdormu had a history of removing them entirely, claiming that the powers they served _needed_ to be eradicated, wherever they appeared. Anachronos and the others obeyed that desire, as their sandy charge tore through the line of giants that had been traversing Tanaris, and reduced them to sand as easily as the bugs. As the wall of living draconic sand passed over the hordes occupying Un'Goro's airspace, and pushed ever westward into Silithus, the Heir of Nozdormu got his first real glance at exactly _what_ his sire was so afraid of.

The spires of Ahn'Qiraj loomed in the distance, and behind them, almost incorporeal, was the massive bloated figure of a being that thought itself a god. The endless eyes of the monstrosity blinked at him once, in unison, and then just as quickly as it had appeared, the vision vanished from the sight and senses of a being that could see through multiple time streams. Anachronos and the other elder wyrms reformed themselves over the eastern edge of the sands of Silithus, and with the horizon of the foul land stretched before them, they got a good sense of just how numerous these bugs were.

* * *

The elves had not been lying. True to their words, their kin now littered the sands in numbers that were well into the thousands. Many had been torn to pieces for fun or food, or just by the general stampeding of thousands of bug-like legs. The wyrms unleashed their sandy breath attacks over and over, yet each time the horde seemed to shrink away and become yet more sand, over a hundred new, fresh warriors would take their place, and surge uselessly towards the bronze scaled dragons.

Anachronos looked again at the city, and sensed nothing, but he had learned well the lessons his father had passed on. Evil like this, that hid itself and bent insectoid races to its whims, had once ruled this land. He had seen the past, though he had not understood what he had been looking at. He knew once this very land had been home to a foul empire, but surely, that malevolent society was long buried under the sands.

The dragon blinked, once. Or, it was being _hidden_ by them. "Pull back to the Crater. Cover the region from here to Feralas, this infestation must not spread to the jungles. I will summon the other flights. We will need them."

If the other, typically much older, wyrms disagreed with the heir's judgement, they did not voice their concerns, and instead moved to strategic positions around Silithus. Together, they wove a spell of sand and time, that reduced any flying insects to grubs, which then died to the long, long fall to the ground below. The barrier of sand was temporary, but it would hold long enough. As with the demons, for Anachronos had witnessed the War of the Ancients as well, they would need mortal and natural aid to put this threat down, permanently. He looked again at the swarming hordes pouring from the gates of Ahn'Qiraj. Even with everything the allied forces of Kalimdor had, it might still not be enough. The bugs were endless.

* * *

With a low growl, Anachronos turned, and headed back towards Tanaris, and the elves who yet camped there. He did not like the one called Staghelm, almost entirely because the dragon had a good idea of what he would become, maybe, but even in this timezone, the elf pricked his last nerve. The other, though, the one that smelled of Ashamane, had at least shown respect where it was due. Once, the elves had treated all his kin with such, but that was in a time now long passed, and forgotten.

Anachronos made good time to his home region, and as he landed atop the Caverns of Time, and stared down at the huddled, but mobilizing elven remnants behind it, the deep voice rumbled over them. "Where are the druids who defended our offspring while the rest of you cowered behind our home?" The dragon stared each of the suddenly very guilty looking elves down with a gleaming golden gem of an eye, daring them to lie to his face about their involvement.

Several, bearing the marks of Ursoc and Ursol and led by a particularly fierce pair of females, stepped forward. The golden eyes glinted as he surveyed them, and did not find the male who had requested his aid. He glanced to his right, as a bronze drake, a whelp-watcher named Kairozdormu if he recalled correctly, landed beside him on a lower rocky protrusion. "Looking for one in particular?"

* * *

The elder wyrm nodded. Kairoz spoke again. "Those below were the bears you saw earlier. The others were led by one who called himself Stormclaw...but I do not sense...ahh, no, there he is."

Melting from the shadows that had kept his presence hidden even from an elder dragon, came a panther with massive saber-teeth, and an uncanny resemblance to Ashamane. Anachronos knew that the Wild Spirits, much like some dragons, would occasionally choose mortals to empower and fight for them as avatars of their will. Slightly more impressed, the bronze wyrm leaned low over the remnants of the elven host, his neck giving him all the length he needed. "Stormclaw, was it? You and yours have earned a gift. You aided my kin when it would have been easier to let them die, and increase our rage to greater heights against our common foe. You and your fellows leapt to the fore, when the rest had given up." The massive wings rose into the darkening sky, and his massive form began to glow as he summoned the power inherent to his flight, and his blood.

Anachronos eyed the gathered elves who had each resumed their first shapes, remarking not for the first time at how the night invigorated them. Though they had ties to other entities, it seemed the Moon Mother yet favored her chosen mortal race. All but one, anyways. The very druid that had helped lead the defense of their young. Anachronos did not know what had transpired the elf and the Moon, but he knew Elune's scorn when he saw it. His lips rose into a slight smirk.

* * *

It was rare that one of Elune's own gave her up, but the more he sensed of the mortal before him, the more he realized what he'd traded it for. Bronze dragons knew better than any other what Azeroth was, what she could become, and what her fate would be if evil was allowed to fester and spread unchecked. It was a secret older than all of them, and one they never voiced aloud, lest they change the future they were working so hard to ensure. Elves like this would be most useful if they remained fighting fit until their demise, and so, the Heir of Nozdormu gave them a gift.

"For your altruism, I grant you youth eternal. No matter what the future holds, no matter what you lose or gain, through it all your bodies shall remain as vigorous as they are now. Remember this kindness, and _why_ you earned it, when those around you forget." The elves shared a look, puzzled and a bit unnerved at what the time-traveling dragon hinted at, but their thoughts faded as the rush of power entered their beings, and suffused them with the magic of the Bronze Dragonflight. It was not the same as a blessing he would give a Dragonsworn, but it would be useful for those with limited lifespans and mortal limitations.

* * *

Stormclaw bowed, and the other elves followed suit once the daze from the rush of power left them. "What would you have us do to aid you in the current conflict, Heir of Nozdormu?"

Anachronos rose up again, looking every bit as regal as Azshara had at her peak. He glowed in the moonlight from the twin moons, and addressed the elves as a whole now. "Return to your groves, bring forth the Green Dragonflight, tell them who sent you, and what has transpired. I shall reach out to the reds and blues. Then, return south to your outposts. We will drive the silithid back from the holes they crawled out of!"

The gathered, demoralized elves rallied, as the bronze wyrm took to the sky once more, Kairoz in tow. What few drakes and dragons had not left in the initial charge thanks to travel, and the trickiness of the timeways, now came forth from the Caverns, and with them, their best weapon.

He was a wyrm from Nozdormu's younger days, in a time before mortals. His eyes had watched the world when it was young, and he had been one of the first 'true dragons' to be transformed alongside the Aspect of Time. Anachronos fell into flight beside the giant dragon as they headed west. "Grakkarond. It has been some time since I've seen you in this era."

* * *

The ancient wyrm shifted his blank eyes to Nozdormu's whelp. "This era is terrible. Fel scars everywhere, _far_ too much ocean, bugs running amok, dark powers best left alone woken from their ancient and hard-won slumber. It is my duty to return, for you summoned _all_ of us. All must come, when Nozdormu's blood calls. No matter how far away we are." The seemingly crotchety wyrm flapped onwards, towards Silithus. "So...the Aqir are roused once more...hrrrrmph." The dragon growled low as he brooded. He hated when prophecies started fulfilling themselves.

Anachronos kept quiet as they returned to Silithus to reinforce and lead the bronzes there. Grakkarond was crotchety at the best of times, but he seemed more solemn than usual. Being so old, he had naturally been one of many of the first generation to teach the next, which had included Anachronos himself. Now, few remained who were Grakkarond's age, and those who did were of other flights, if they were not deceased already.

As they came upon the hordes of insects once more, the Heir of Nozdormu fervently hoped he had not just summoned the entirety of his flight to be slaughtered by whatever awaited them inside the city.

* * *

 **Ahn'Qiraj - Silithus**

* * *

"They're too much for us…" Vek'lor chittered softly as they watched the bronze dragons reduce their forces far quicker than they could ever hope to breed them by way of the more sorcerous brother's Scrying Orb. Their numbers _seemed_ endless, but even the silithid had limits. The dragons would soon test them, if they continued to take down fifty fully grown Colossi with a simple breath. "They took out our Anubisaths with their initial charge, and have been slaughtering ever since...if this continues, if more of the Titan's hounds come, they will find us, and they will end us. If not them, then the mortals they infuse with their strength will do their dirty work for them. They're becoming annoyingly common from those who've managed to survive the swarm."

Vek'nilash made quiet clicking noises, his mandibles clacking together as they often did when the warrior attempted to think beyond his station. "We need...a weapon. A _better_ weapon. An answer to the Titan's hounds…"

Vek'lor eyed his fellow Emperor. "What...did you have in mind, brother of mine?"

Vek'nilash strode from the gates of the city then, back to the chamber that the pair typically resided in. "Something...inspired." Once inside, the pair strode to the center of the chamber, and the hidden triangular platform in the center of the room brought them down deep into the bowels of the city. While the tattered, ruined spires above gave the appearance of an empire long dead and a culture past its prime, here, under the ruins, was where the Qiraji's true empire flourished. Yellow-orange lights lit the many massive tunnels that had been carved over the millennia as the hive grew ever larger in preparation for the Great One's awakening. Now, that time was fast approaching.

* * *

Green flames burned eternal in this Underforge of dark creations, for it was here that the Twin Emperors had first bent the minds of the Titan's Anubisath to their will. There had been other Titan minions, guardians who'd possessed strange magical abilities. They had been rather challenging to completely subdue, and not one had fallen to the twin's attempts to bend them to C'thun's will.

That all changed now. Vek'nilash gathered the ancient obsidian chunks of the long fallen Titanforged, tossing them into the molten pit of fire and equally emerald magma. Their basic shape was easy enough to reforge, and from the mass of pieces came a winged, four-legged obsidian shape that resembled the Tol'vir's form as it had once been, but it was Vek'lor who tried, and consistently failed, to empower the long fallen construct with new life.

After the twentieth such attempt, something changed. The fires flickered, for a moment, and a familiar, if terrifying, presence joined them. Power surged into the twins, and together, they brought forth the first of their new weapons of war.

Eyes still burning with C'thun's dark power, Vek'lor saw a similar essence infused within the construct, and as its head rose towards him with sentience behind the burning green eyes, the Qiraji chittered excitedly. "You are the first...the first of our masterpieces."

* * *

The construct spoke awkwardly, as if trying, and only just now remembering, how to form words with a throat of stone. "What...is thy bidding...my master?"

Vek'lor began to speak, when quite suddenly, the power that had aided him forced both himself and his brother to their knees. It was then that he noticed the construct's eyes had shifted to the center of the room, ignoring him as immaterial. The statue's words had come before its body had time to adjust its head towards the entity it addressed. A single, massive Eye floated before the three above the burning green flames that kept the eggs of the Qiraji hives warm and viable in the otherwise rather cold sandy underground.

 **I grant the power to drain the Arcane mana of the Titan's hounds. Rip their essence from them. Use it to Eradicate any who oppose My will. You are no longer a Watcher. You are now...a Destroyer.**

The obsidian entity saluted the Eye in a manner that was more leftover reflex of a life long forgotten, than anything else. "It will...be done." The being left the chamber then, flying slowly and awkwardly on its own power up through the entrance the Emperors had used to descend. The brothers glanced at each other, unsure of what to do now, and wondering if one such creature would be enough.

Obsidian fragments of stone rose up through the sand around them in massive chunks, and a single word accompanied them.

 **More.**

* * *

 **Oneiros - Feralas**

* * *

Laronar Stormclaw looked around at the druids he had gathered in the day and a half since they'd trudged from Tanaris to Feralas. Over the course of this conflict, the local settlement of Oneiros, once little more than tent camps gathered together, had gained stone architecture, and even a temple to the Moon. With all of the reserves now drawn upon and the barrow dens emptied, Thaon was with them, though Laronar had kept their patron's Fangs. They were the largest part of why he was still alive, and they helped him keep others that way too. Augmenting their Ashen forces were the Nightsabers that, until this stage of the war, Laronar had been keeping far from the fighting.

He gave Storm's chin a thorough scratch, and eyed his oldest friend. He knew the great cat wished to end the bugs that had killed no small amount of Nightsabers he himself had sired, but until now, the druid had been reluctant to send him forth. In hindsight, waiting had been the smart option. Of the Sentinels who had survived, very few had done so with their original mounts. Would that the dragons had aided them sooner, but he supposed they had Fandral to thank for that. Now, they would need everything. Again.

Beyond the comparatively small division swarmed thousands of now fully corporeal green dragons, each of whom was preparing for war by way of magical enchantments. Anachronos had asked for aid, and not long after, the druids had arrived to reinforce the urgency of what the elves had stepped in this time. In the quiet before the conflict, many of the older wyrms stared angrily at the mountains to their south, a small obstacle for any dragon, and the fields beyond where _many_ good, loved, friends of the flight had met their ends.

* * *

Shandris rode by the Ashen's encampment, followed as usual by a column of the most elite Sentinels who yet lived, each atop panthers that, by no coincidence, Storm had raised. They had the same look as the dragons, and many, were wondering why they were walking. Their hard glares focused on the attention of their General, as she stopped before a smirking, green haired druid. "Ride with me."

Laronar felt his cheeks darken, especially as the combined eyes of Sentinels and Ashen were now wondering why the Fel Shandris Feathermoon knew he existed. "I don't need a ride...but I will join you." He shifted then into his cat form, coming up to the height of her own mount, who he greeted as an old friend and the other druids did the same as they felt Ashamane's power manifest once more. Thousands of amber eyes now readied themselves for the relatively short run to the edge of the jungle. Cliffs were little trouble to panthers of their size. As with the first Sentinel reinforcements at the start of this conflict, they would ride over the steep mountains, and fall into the fray. The elves had no doubt that the bronzes would need aid soon, if they did not already. Even the greens had the same bad habit of underestimating the bugs.

Merithra, daughter of Ysera, led them all south from Feralas, and through the bronze dragon's shield, or rather they would have, if the shield yet stood. As they crested the southern edge of Feralas, the greens bore witness to a sight unheard of. Of all the dragonflights, none were as powerful as the bronzes, for while the blacks and blues had strength and magic, time made sand of all of them. Yet even those who traveled the length of existence and guarded the very fabric of reality from being tampered with were, somehow, falling to the bugs.

* * *

The elves did not pause, for they were well acquainted with what a battlefield suffering from Qiraji shenanigans looked like, and before long, the charging column of druids and Sentinels slammed into the edge of the hordes. They found their path cleared for them as many of the bugs simply ceased to exist thanks to the overhead flying green dragons. It soon became clear though, as to what was taking down so many bronzes.

They flew awkwardly on wings of obsidian stone, and a magic shell surrounded their forms. They had four legs, two arms, and head decor that seemed like a bad copy of Zandalari royal headwear. Each hand held an implement burning with foul green energy, and when the creatures directed such things at dragons, their scale color did not matter. Their magic was ripped from them, and the defenseless dragonkin soon found themselves swarmed by Qiraji, and brought into the hordes of Colossi below.

Each fallen titan crushed thousands of the bugs, but there was a very limited number of dragons, and even at that moment, more bugs streamed forth from the spires in the distance. All across Silithus battle was joined, as the defenders of Kalimdor charged, and pushed at the swarm from all sides.

* * *

In the east were the blues, the only ones who had any success with removing the strange obsidian constructs, namely by teleporting them back several hundred miles behind their city. From the air, that direction appeared to only contain mountains, but thanks to the construct's slow speed, getting back took quite a while. They had proven immune to magic and breath attacks, as well as physical clawing.

Laronar had continued running with the Sentinels, and the cats complimented the riders rather well, namely by guarding their blind spots, and even keeping their wounded mounts from lashing out wildly. The strange amber eyed cats seemed to possess healing magic as well, and throughout the battle, more than one sister stayed alive thanks to the near constant regeneration provided by the ceaselessly slashing cat forms.

Ashamane's Chosen and the Ranger General, who had been given authority in this final conflict by both of the honored heads of their people, had little trouble making a path for the rest to ride through, and anyone with eyes knew that they'd done this before. From the air, or the ground, no matter how large, the two smashed through every bug that dared to test itself against them. With almost no warning, a massive crimson scaled form landed in front of them, magical warding gone, as Colossi began swarming.

* * *

Laronar glanced at the General, who nodded and pointed. With a roar, five other Sharpclaws followed him as they leapt over the fallen dragon, and Shandris took the charging column around. They were almost ready to spread out the lines, and begin the final push, but every dragon they had, they would need.

The Ashen defended and healed the bleeding beast with continuous spells, and their finely honed claws caused any who came near to bleed to death not long after. These five in particular were rather good at what they did, and had, in Laronar's mind, proven themselves. One shifted into a bear form as the bugs swarmed again, and once more, the remaining four panthers tore into the focused crowd of insect scum.

As bears, and thanks in no small part to a _lot_ of training with Druids of the Claw, his Sharpclaws used the mighty forms as damage sponges, and used the resulting rage of the beast within to continuously heal whatever punishment the form took. The downside was not being able to strike back, as the healing took quite a bit of mental focus to maintain, but given how that was their other focus, theirs lasted a bit longer than their bear favoring counterparts, and did not require a frenzy to use.

* * *

Behind them, the dragon rose, the numerous cuts along its scaled body healed, and and the wyrm was rejuvenated by the magic of nature. The dragon seemed to enhance what spells had been cast upon him, and as he flapped once more into the air, ruby flames burned away every bug around the column, and then some. Strangely enough, life did not bloom in the sands of Silithus, even after being torched by a red dragon's breath. Nothing plant related grew from the scorched, glassy patches of sand. Below, the elves had taken their casting shapes, and Laronar, along with the others, reinforced the dragon with what magical wards they could. Since they drew primarily from the wilds and not the arcane, they might hold up longer, or so they had reasoned.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, and the detached squad found their gazes drawn in the direction of their column. They were spreading out to either side of the cleared field, and the dragons were regrouping in the air behind them. More reds arrived, and reinforced what their brother had lost. As thanks, they flew behind the Sharpclaws then, and bathed the battle in helpful gouts of ruby flame.

As the push began, black forms began appearing in the sky, and Laronar got his first look at what would come to be known as an Obsidian Destroyer. The being's eyes burned with unnatural green flames, and the one closest to them raised a strange scepter. "They're aiming at the dragons!"

* * *

Laronar's ears flicked at Shandris' words, and as usual, he was the first to charge in and do something about it. Arrows and glaives proved ineffective, even those laced with magic. Once more, a crowd of his favorites followed, though many others simply did not do so because the bugs, even when losing ground, refused to stop trying to blindly charge ahead through the forming ranks of the elven armies.

All across Silithus, similar scenes were playing out, though in most, the dragons found themselves losing more of their kin than they wished. The Destroyers were living up to their monicker, and the dragons simply had no way to counter them. Thus, the mortals, and primarily the blues, were left to deal with them.

Once more taking the owl's form, Laronar again found the Fangs responding to the form change, covering his talons in the usual, magical metal claw coverings. He and the group of roughly ten druids sliced their way through the Qiraji in the sky, though thanks to the red dragons, there weren't too many to deal with.

* * *

They made their first several passes on the obsidian being, and Laronar soon discovered that, for whatever reason, only the Fang-encased talons he was using left any lasting mark. That was fine, for as he looked around the clear desert sky, he saw their numbers were not too terribly great. It would take time, but he could whittle away at them, and force their focus from the dragons.

With a single shriek from their leader, the others descended below, and rejoined the fray with savage landings. Feeling slightly insulted, the construct's eyes flared, and it raised a scepter towards the owl. A beam of green energy arced towards the druid, but he was already dodging, flying upside down, and aligning his talons for a strike on the construct's head. They sank into obsidian eye sockets, and then slid completely through, almost too easily. With the source of its power cut clean through, the construct fell, lifeless, towards the sands.

Spurred on by what appeared to be success, Laronar repeated the method, and hoped that the chunks of statue were crushing bugs below, not fellow elves. It was only when the proud druid glanced behind him at his trail of carnage that he saw the stone, somehow, reforming itself. The first had already taken to the sky again, and suddenly, he knew what they had to do. Many minds across the battle understood, all around the same time. They needed to seal this relentess force away. They could not stop it, not yet. Knowing what would be needed for study, the owl spun in the air, and this time the still gaping head of his latest opponent parted from its shoulders. The wings flapped a few times, and continued to do so as the now magicless body pummeled the silithid below with death. Minus a head, it did not rise again.

* * *

The druid took stock of their forces once he handed the very angry glowing head off to an elven courier that would see it stored somewhere safe, likely with the supplies they'd brought with them. Laronar had tried calling on the Highmountain Tauren, or at least the Skyhorn for aid, but Shandris had refused, as had many others, chief among them being Fandral. They were of the opinion that guarding the world from this threat was the Night Elve's responsibility, for the mantle of immortality had been given to them, and them alone. They had defended the world before, they would not fail now.

He'd pointed out that only by using many races had the tides of war finally turned, but he was then reminded, by those who had actually been in the final battle of the War of the Ancients, that by that point, Malfurion and Illidan were already off succeeding on whatever their mission had been. The specifics were always vague, but everyone always attributed the closing of the demon portal to Malfurion, and sometimes his less popular twin.

He charged back into the fray as he spied Anachronos, alongside another massive bronze wyrm, tearing through the carnage with impressive results. Colossi, Anubisath, even a pair of Destroyers had not made the dragons pause, though what exactly became of them was unclear. One second they were facing down the ancient wyrm, and the next, they had simply never been. The combined force of Ashen and semi-wild Nightsabers that was his to command rallied as one of their pack leaders charged by them, roaring, and infusing them with Ashamane's speed. The push needed to gain momentum, and sure enough, as his druids clawed their way deeper, aided in no small part by the many gaps in the lines the dragons left, they encourage the units around them to fight that much harder to keep up. The bugs began to lose ground for the first time since the wolf-faced giants had taken to the sands, and slowly, the defenders drove them back towards Ahn'Qiraj.

* * *

Anachronos ascended into the sky then, as did three other equally large wyrms of various scale color. Laronar assumed they must be the ones leading the dragons. The ancient wyrms, with the exception of the green and a few reds, had largely ignored the mortal defenders aiding them. They were more focused on avoiding the Destroyers, and eradicating entire generations of Qiraji with their widespread attacks.

Feeling hopeful for the first time in several long days, that hope faded, as the magnificent form of the larger bronze fell from the sky, a massive sword embedded in his wing. The surrounding area shook with the dragon's rage, and the wyrm's forced landing was guided towards its assailant as he barreled through hundreds of bugs. Laronar grimaced. He knew that look, he'd seen it already, far too many times. It was the last charge of a dragon who knew, even as bugs climbed his massive body, that this was his end.

The druid watched, very much impressed, as the beast mauled the obsidian giant who'd had the stones to challenge him. Both massive claws tore the grinning wolf-like visage to pieces, but before he had a chance to crush the rest of the body, Colossi charged him, rising like a tidal wave of water, and forcing the wyrm into the sand. His mauled opponent's form sunk far too quickly into the sand below it, and did not reappear. Spurred on by his patrons, the druid charged with the others, but by the time they came close enough to the dragon to aid, he was long gone.

Suddenly, _every_ combatant on the field paused, groaning in pain as emanations of power surged from Ahn'Qiraj. The sound had stunned the silithid...and then driven them into a frenzy. The elven lines threatened to buckle as the bugs entered an inexplicable rage that the elves had not seen before, and Laronar knew, this was the end. Here and now it would be decided. They would stymie the bugs, somehow, or they would charge over the elven corpses to the rest of the relatively undefended Kalimdor.

* * *

Being what he was, Laronar knew quite a bit about how insects communicated, for such things were among the _many_ exhaustively covered topics by druids who, apparently, had nothing better to do than speak to and watch insects go about their daily routine. Though it was rare in Kalimdor, in some smaller species, such calls that induced battle states usually originated from a leader of some sort, and as his sharp ears followed the source of the noise, his eyes noticed what the four dragons hovering high above had already begun to deal with.

The battle was a constantly shifting sea of chaos, carnage, and spells. So very many spells. One side of Silithus lit up, drawing his eyes, as the result of several Starfires 'boomed' within Hive'Zora. The foul tentacles rising from the sands were burned away to stubby, charred remnants, and not long after, Hive'Regal suffered a similar fate. That booming lasted several minutes, as that particular hive had been the main source of new bugs for the entirety of the conflict.

Horns sounded across the front then, and the elves began their final push, as Ahn'Qiraj was in sight, and they yet lived. Some, were beginning to believe they might just be able to stop this threat, if they could but reach the city's gates. The plan had been relatively simple, charge in as far as momentum would carry them, and then press the bugs back into the city from whence they came, removing their other hives in the process. By this point, every soldier fighting in Kalimdor's name was more than motivated. Too many had fallen to the bugs, and as Zora and Regal were toasted, the defenders pushed the bugs back to the very gates of the city. Then, once more, the minions of C'thun proved that there would be no stopping them. Ever.

* * *

The area around the gates became a bloodbath as frenzied bugs surged from Ahn'Qiraj in a wave of bodies into the waiting blades, claws, and staves of the elves who'd faced them since the start. Horns blew again, futilely, as the bloody stalemate continued, and even the druid's usual tactic of focus and slash proved ineffective here. There were simply too many bugs. It soon became clear that if something didn't change, the lines would break for a third time, and that time, they would never reform.

The Tauren and other races of Kalimdor did not have the numbers to stem this tide. It needed to end here, and the heirs of the Aspects intended to make sure it did. Several things happened at once. Massive forms of red, green, and blue charged into Ahn'Qiraj itself, forcing the bugs back with the combined fury of three dragonflights. Then, the orders came down to the druids.

Fandral's infantry and the Sentinels would hold the line, and the druids would craft a barrier, with the aid of Anachronos, to imprison the Qiraji threat indefinitely, or at least, until the elves had enough forces to storm the city, and finally end the bugs for good. The structure that would come to be known as the Scarab Wall rose quickly before them, as the bronze heir worked the combined natural, arcane, and even holy energies into a barrier not even the insects could smash.

* * *

The Qiraji who tried flying past in the air found an invisible wall of nope that they battered uselessly against, and the bugs glared down at the exhausted elves with hate in their compound eyes. The elves stared back at them with much the same. Both sides knew, this was not over, not yet, but for the moment victory, of a sort, once more belonged to the Kaldorei and their immortal allies.

It had come at a heavy cost. Grakkarond, one of the 'generals' of the bronze dragons had fallen alongside hundreds of other dragons who had been alive longer than most of the gathered elves, and now three of four heirs of the Aspects were imprisoned, or more likely dead, within the walls of Ahn'Qiraj. The entire desert was littered with corpses, mostly bugs, and while the fallen defenders had left piles of carnage around them, against the silithid, that hardly mattered. Even at that moment they could hear them, buzzing furiously as they realized this imprisonment was too much even for their slowly awakening master. His rise had been put on hold, but next time, when the wall came down, the Qiraji's rise would be unstoppable.

Laronar did not witness the breaking of the Scepter of the Shifting Sands, something he would later learn was apparently a key to unlocking the shield. He and the other druids, upon seeing the battle concluded, had begun the long march back to Feralas. Fandral's forces, what was left of them, would be cleaning up the fallen dead, and the dragons saw to their own. He'd found it strange that they had not bid the elves with so much as a farewell, until he'd heard what Fandral had done to the symbol of their armies, the end result of all the death and pain and loss. He added yet another reason to dislike and distrust the druid to his already lengthy list of grievances.

* * *

 **Ashamane's Fall - Val'sharah**

* * *

Overall, the Ashen had lost over six thousand of their number, and the rest of the elves had been hit just as hard, if not harder. Every day, new names were added to the ever-growing list of those now fallen as those responsible for such numbers recorded them. There were few who had seen the conflict in its early stages, and had lived through to the end, and each of them found themselves visited not long after the war ended.

It was high noon when Laronar placed the Fangs of Ashamane back upon the pedestal they had sat on for millennia prior to the bug's awakening. He felt the approval of his patron rumble through his being, a sensation that he, and every other Ashen, rather enjoyed.

 _They have drunk much of the bug's blood. You wielded them well, Laronar Stormclaw._

Laronar shrugged. "I hope I do not need to wield them again. In fact, I hope they stay there, absorbing the natural power of this realm, for as long as elvenly possible. We will need that strength, when the Legion returns." The ancient panther nodded in agreement, and then faded away to rest. Though she would never admit it, the conflict's near-constant warring had taken a toll on her, as well.

* * *

Laronar glanced up, as a surge of natural power poured into the Fangs, rejuvenating and restoring their depleted energy. A semi-corporeal Ancient of Lore was standing behind the altar upon which they rested, and Laronar slowly arched a brow as he recognized who this was. All knew of Leafbeard, and his stories. In his time in Val'sharah, Laronar had heard many of them, and had long since stopped sitting around nightly to listen. The ancient did not begrudge him that however, for many did the same after a few years.

"Archdruid Stormclaw. I am glad you yet live. I have spoken with Lea and Koda, as well as Isoraen, and those who lived through the War of the Shifting Sands. All have given me the same advisement: find you, for you often fought both in the sky and on the ground, charging bravely into danger numerous times, despite using your cat form. I would hear your account of the war as well, so future generations will remember."

Laronar had walked over to the nearby stream that ran around Ashamane's shrine, and he saw the incorporeal panther, looking slightly stronger after the appreciated gift of power, eyeing him expectantly. She more than most knew his shy tendencies, but for this, he needed to speak. So he did, after quenching his thirst. It was a luxury he had enjoyed since returning, for water had been scarce throughout the conflict.

* * *

Laronar leveled his harsh amber gaze at the Ancient. "When you speak of this war, ancient one, be sure to end with this: It is _not_ over. The Qiraji are _not_ defeated, and some day, the Scarab Wall will fall. We must be ready before that happens. We must also keep in mind that the bugs will likely not simply fall asleep while they are trapped. Warn those who will listen, the Qiraji who come forth next will be prepared for everything we have already used against them." The Ancient gave a slow, single nod, and Laronar began recounting his tale, from his perspective.

From first arriving in Un'Goro Crater to the raising of the Scarab Wall, the usually quiet druid demonstrated, with some surprise to the Ancient and the Wild God, that he was rather good at storytelling. His words were complex and old, his style of speech, especially after extended periods, sounded more like a Night Elf from Azshara's time, rather than a modern druid. As he spoke, wisps gathered above them in the trees, and the druids tone grew increasingly somber.

He knew who they were, he did not have to guess. As he finished his tale, he looked up to them. "I am sorry I could not do more to keep you alive, my kin. Mark me, some day, the Qiraji will pay for taking you from us before your time. We'll charge into their foul city until they, and whatever spawned them, are rotting corpses beneath the sand. Rest, and know you _will_ be avenged."

Seemingly satisfied, the wisps made soft ringing sounds, and circled around the shrine several times, before flying off at great speeds in whatever direction drew what was left of their attention span. Leafbeard left as well, after asking several questions, and proving his ancient mind yet retained its sharp edge. He had absorbed every word, as was his nature.

* * *

 _What do you plan to do now, my druid? I sense you do not wish to resume teaching._

Laronar gave a humorless smirk. "I taught my Sharpclaws every trick I knew, every skill, every healing spell, and it _still_ was not enough to keep them from being overwhelmed by a horde of enemies. I'm going to travel to what is left of Old Kalimdor, I'm going to learn, and I'm going to find a way for a smaller force to take down one whose number is legion." He fixed the incorporeal panther with an amber stare. "That's two enemies now who have such numbers, and I would not be surprised if, given the chance, they joined forces. We need to be better. We need to be ready."

The panther nodded. _Go. Travel the world as you wish, and return when you are ready. Thaon shall take over in your absence._

Ashamane faded away then, leaving the druid once more alone. He sighed, shifted into his cat form, and began walking towards the Dreamgrove.


	17. Fateful Convergence

**Fateful Convergence  
**

* * *

Laronar Stormclaw spent some much needed time dreaming after the War of the Shifting Sands, and during that time, he walked alone, to parts of the Dream that even green dragons did not know of, or venture near. He learned sometimes from the mind that, in his limited understanding, formed the base and shell of the incomprehensibly large dream realm, and with this knowledge, became stronger, and better able to defend her. Each lesson made him stronger, deepening his connection to the natural world, the only problem was that such lessons often had decades between them. For an immortal with a body that wouldn't quit however, that was not an issue.

For one hundred and seventy five years Laronar walked the Dream, primarily with Ashamane and Storm. They traveled, spoke mostly only to each other and the recovering green dragons, and practiced friendly duels each rest cycle. Usually, the Wild God would pit herself against two of her favored males, just to give them a chance. It was adorable that they genuinely believed they stood one, but then, that _was_ part of their charm.

After realizing almost two centuries had passed, Laronar emerged from the Dream refreshed, and with the horrors of war not constantly flashing before his waking eyes with every eyeblink. He did not linger in the Dreamgrove, for he had emerged into daylight. Rensar Greathoof shared a mutual nod of respect from the spot he usually stood watch in as the Feral Druid passed by, took his favored form, and headed into the wilds of Val'sharah. The Dream was beautiful yes, but he had always found Azeroth, and the reality he'd existed in most of his life, to be more so. No other area came close to matching Val'sharah. It was the best combination of both realms.

* * *

Laronar padded quietly through Val'sharah, and left Storm to reclaim his harem from the upstart males who had no doubt taken over in his absence. He padded silently past the Temple of the Moon, or what was left of it, as well as the elves within, through Azsuna, until finally he reached the shattered shoreline. From there, he flew.

From the air, the still-standing dome of arcane energy that sheltered, presumably, what was left of Suramar from the elder days drew his gaze. Across from the dome was a place once known to his people as Thal'dranath. Once, a great temple to the Moon Goddess had stood here, across from Suramar's Night Hold. Now, it had sunk into the ocean, and only the weathered stone heads of the elven maidens marked where the top point of the tower had been. He eyed it with slight suspicion. When last he'd seen it, it had stood much taller above the waves. Now, most of the good perches were properly under the ocean. He supposed the earth below must have shifted. The wounds of the Shattering had not faded away, even after thousands of years.

The druid landed in one of the bowls for holding holy water held by the fair stone arms, and reclined in it, finding a surprisingly comfortable layer of moss within. He did what he usually did when he was alone, and pulled out the cat-headed pipe. Soon after, clouds of magically animated smoke drifted into the air before him. First, was a Nightsaber. Then he gave it friends, and they chased each other until they were blown away by strong winds from the south.

* * *

Alone for the first time in almost two hundred years, the druid decided to let his mind wander as he toked and exhaled until the moons rose over the horizon to his left. He glanced down at his darkened skin, frowned, and realized he rather missed being his whole self. It had taken war and time to realize what the Moon Goddess had stripped him of, and while he would never relinquish his bond with nature and the spirit of the Wilds, he knew then that he wished to enjoy the moon as the rest of his kin did. The pridefulness that had spurred his past decision had faded somewhere on the sands of Silithus. Now, he just wanted to feel the light again. The sun was a bit harsh for his taste, but the moon always, every single night, avoided shining on him.

Moonrise was always a joyful time in his society, and yet, since their falling out he had been quietly left out of it. While the lack of light had undoubtedly improved his stealthiness, he did not feel the trade worth it. Ashamane was plenty stealthy naturally, and she had been right. He was less than he _could_ be. The more he thought, the more he realized, with a slowly growing smirk, that the offers for physical copulation had ceased as well. More than a few of his race's females would not deign to socialize with one shunned by the Moon Goddess.

He glanced up at the blazing white orb, and waited, expectantly. And waited. He waited until she and her Child had climbed to the highest point in the sky, eyes never moving from her radiance, as he was rather determined to have some kind of acknowledgement for the amount of time he'd spent waiting thus far.

* * *

His fallacious ideas faded as a sound filled his ears. He knew a musical tune when he heard one, the only problem, was that this one was in another...language...and said language evidently only had two words.

"Om nom nom, om nom nom. Nom nom om nom nooomm! Nom nom nom, om nom nom nom, nom nom nom om nom nooooommm!" The proud, and definitely male, voice echoed the catchy tune, and as its owner came into view, the druid slooowly raised an emerald green eyebrow. It was a bear, but it sat like a sentient, a Furbolg almost, but fatter, so very much fatter, almost to the point of silliness.

The absurdity of the sight only grew, as he saw that the fat not-Furbolg was holding naught but a bamboo shafted umbrella over his head, despite there being no rain on the horizon, but most silly of all was what the black and white bear was riding on. It was a giant turtle, of a particular species that, Laronar knew after much reading on the subject, grew to massive sizes, if allowed to. Many lived on the elven land's westernmost coasts, where the waters were relatively clear of predators, and nature flourished thanks to the many barrow dens now once more home to sleeping druids.

* * *

He was still a little turtle though, and his rider, while young judging by his excited eyes, had already reached maturity. His mount, had not. The om noms stopped as the druid shifted in his mossy cradle, and pulled a pinch of soot and salt from one of his pouches. The inscribed leather chest straps had been stored, properly, for when next he would need them, but he'd kept the extra pouches, as well as the rest of his usual attire. He always needed bag space.

He traced an ancient sigil over the salty, sooty pile in his hand, and then blew it down towards the bear man and the turtle. Both sniffed, eyeing his spot curiously, as they caught a whiff of what seemed almost like skunk, buried beneath the usual ocean saltiness.

Laronar popped up from over the ridge of the bowl. "Hello there. Your little friend looks tired. Let me...aid him a little…" The druid raised two fingers slowly, and though the black and white bear clenched his bamboo umbrella tighter, he did not make a violent move. The elf transferred the power, and the Mark appeared above the turtle, making his eyes widen, as his strength suddenly surged. He rose higher in the water, and Laronar realized, he was a bit bigger than he'd first guessed. Still not quite enough for a bear that large, but they had apparently made due.

* * *

The bear man glanced at his mount, and spoke softly to it. It wasn't more om nom, but even the elf's sharp ears didn't catch the words above the crashing surf around the sunken temple. The bear looked back up at Laronar. "Tell me, stranger. Are you a...Night Elf? I have only read stories, and old ones at that, of your kind, but all mention the glowing eyes, dark skin, and long ears. Do you happen to know where we are, and if there is a place to rest?"

The druid smirked from his lofty perch. "You are in what my people call the Broken Isles. I am indeed one of the Kaldorei. Follow me, I will guide you to the closest beach, and we can talk some more."

The druid shifted forms then, taking on the guise of a large, deep blue feathered owl. The eyes remained the same, and were just as intense, and the turtle followed the silent bird with impressive swimming speed. Once the pair reached land, Laronar resumed his elven shape, and began conjuring a campfire for the bear and he to sit at.

* * *

He approached the druid curiously as his turtle mount rested on the sand, falling asleep almost immediately. The obese bear bowed with surprising formality. "I am Liu Lang. I hail from Pandaria, a land to the south, enshrouded by mist. I was told the rest of the world was destroyed in the Sundering. Tell me, Kaldorei, is this the truth?"

Laronar shook his head, and soon, an emerald flamed campfire coalesced out of swirling nature energy from the druid's palms. "No. The world yet exists, though I can only speak for the northernmost and western landmasses. There is one to the east, but I have not been there, yet. My home, to the west, is called Kalimdor, as it was when my people ruled over its entirety." He eyed the bear again, for one of the words he spoke rang with a familiar sound. "Pandaria, you said? Are you...Pandaken? Pandakin? Hrrmph. My grandfather told me a story of your people once, but I cannot remember what he named you." The druid chuckled, and sighed. "After ninety two hundred years...give or take...that's to be expected, I suppose."

"Pandaren." Liu said, eyeing the elf with skepticism. Then again, this same being had just literally transformed into a bird before his eyes and with little trouble. Lots of things that seemed impossible before were starting to become realistic, maybe. It was clear to the Pandaren that he had much to learn.

* * *

They talked well into that night, and Laronar learned, slowly, of what the Pandaren had suffered since they'd lost contact with the world. Mostly, the night was spent recounting the tale of the War of the Ancients, and for that, he mainly borrowed from what Shandris had shared, as she had been there for the more interesting bits. Then, the creature wished to hear of the other great conflicts that his race had missed being a part of, or aiding in. By the time the druid mentioned the Shifting Sands, he spoke up again.

"These bugs...they sound...familiar. We have a similar affliction in Pandaria, beyond the Serpent's Spine. They are not...nearly as numerous though. Not enough to overwhelm the Shado-Pan, anyway." Liu stroked his growing beard, which dangled just past his chin, as he thought over what he had just been told. "I would see Kalimdor, or what remains of it. I wish to know its people."

The elf raised a brow, and then shrugged. He was due for a walkabout. It had been far too long since he'd prowled Kalimdor. Thousands of years, in fact. He wondered what had changed. "Very well. I'll take you to the less...hostile...tribes, but first, we need to teach you basic elvish."

The bear tilted his head. "Elvish? Why?"

Laronar chuckled. "Because this spell lasts only so long, and elvish is the language of trade. Or at least, it was the last time I did any trading over there."

The bear shrugged, acquiesced, and the pair spent the rest of the night learning. It was surprisingly simple to teach, which impressed Laronar. Any comparisons to a Furbolg's intelligence were nonexistent, the Padaren picked up the elder tongue rather quickly. He would refine the bear's speech as they traveled, and by the time they reached Kalimdor, he would be able to get along without the elf, if necessary.

* * *

 **Feralas - Central Kalimdor**

* * *

"The Earth Mother consumed much of the spirit of balance in this world with her awakening. Because of this, our world's elemental planes have rarely found harmony. As a Shaman, and her chosen people, we Tauren must use the power she gives us to maintain the balance between the elements, and all living things. This is the difference between shaman, and those like him, who defend the world, and her Dream, from forces that would see them ended." The Tauren speaking was a shaman of some respect in the tribe the pair was visiting, and he nodded towards Laronar as he spoke, who was at that moment passing on his own pipe to the Tauren beside him.

Liu, who had been the one to ask the difference between shaman and druids, nodded. "So the Earth Mother gives you this...fifth element, and with it, you convince the elementals to aid you? Hmm."

Laronar spoke up then, passing his pipe along to the Tauren beside him. "Not quite, my friend. Spirit and our...Earth Mother...they are two separate things. One is energy, present in all living things, and the other is a being who needed, and still needs, large amounts of that energy to truly wake up. I don't doubt that the Shu'halo are Azeroth's children, but she has many who grew here naturally, and were not...created by other entities."

* * *

The old Tauren chuckled lightly. "I did not know druids knew so much of the spirits."

Laronar smirked, "One picks up such knowledge after a few millennia. I am curious though, Shaman. When last I prowled these lands, our people traded in peace. There was open communication, if not friendship but it seems to have...cooled. Many tribes turned us away before we found yours...and you all seem to be far more...nomadic, than I recall."

The shaman tilted his head at the elf. "I forget, some of you live so long you become unaware of massive, impactful events."

Laronar shrugged. "I was off on an island chain near the Maelstrom for thousands of years. That's as isolated as it gets."

* * *

The Tauren eyed the elf again, not for the first time, in yet another attempt to discern whether he was, in actuality, millennia old, or whether he was some centaur's magical trick of illusion and deception. "Truly? Few of our druids have seen it, and fewer escape being caught within its winds. Even shaman find that our air elementals become wild when we go near it from above. Hmm. What you have missed, it seems, was the ruin of Mashan'she. The Tauren of those bountiful days were convinced that the Earth Mother slept below them. They tried to wake her up."

The Shaman paused, as he toked on the pipe, and then exhaled into a coughing fit. "Hrrrmmph. They succeeded in waking something up...but it was not the Earth Mother. They awoke an Earth Elemental, a 'princess' calling herself Theradras, who proceeded to drain Mashan'she's bountiful life energy to replenish her own. When one of your Cenarion Circle came to investigate the massive loss of life, the Keeper, Zaetar, instead chose to _mate_ with the creature. From that union came our doom. The Centaur. Unholy offspring of earth and natural powers, they killed Zaetar in their senseless rage, and have driven us from Mashan'she, as well as everywhere else, Night Elf. Your people have not aided us. They are of the opinion that we brought this doom upon ourselves, and must suffer it alone."

Laronar sighed. "I recall being told something similar, when our people's situations were reversed. But that is the problem, Shaman. If we keep leaving each other to suffer alone, our people will lose what we gained in the War of the Ancients entirely."

* * *

One of the other Tauren, the chief, judging by his headdress, snorted hard, and interrupted the two. "The War happened long ago, Night Elf. Much has changed. I welcomed you because you remembered the old ways of greeting...but I think perhaps it is time you rejoined your people…there is much you seem to have missed."

Laronar raised a brow, glancing around at the other members of the tribe. Their eyes were hard, but not hateful. He had not refused to aid them, after all. He was a friend to their people, an old one, but one unaware of what his kin's common view of the Tauren was in more modern times. Unbeknownst to the druid, Fandral Staghelm's waking return to Nighthaven and beyond had only increased the elve's latent racism, and the entire 'Desolace incident' had only served to fuel the druid's skewed, and depressingly popular ideas on the inferiority of the Tauren.

The druid nodded to his companion, who stood with ease that belied his hefty form. "Perhaps you are right. My very next words were an offer to help you with the Centaur, after all we have dealt with harpies by unifying our forces, but I see now why my kin are hesitant. Your people have indeed changed. You turn away allies older than your lineage because of something as trivial as race. Perhaps what the Centaur have to teach you will help you re-learn the wisdom you seem to have lost."

"And perhaps, it will not." Liu said, eyeing the Tauren chief, and stifling the angry response he'd been forming.

* * *

The two departed the tent, and then the encampment soon after. They made their way back to the western coast just north of Sardor Isle, where Shen-zin Su, Liu's turtle, was waiting, hidden well in a safe coastal cave. They had traveled much of Kalimdor's relatively barren west coast, even getting a glimpse of Ahn'Qiraj, before heading to Feralas, the jungle which had a habit of bringing Kalimdor's sentients together in one place, and not always peacefully.

Now that he'd met a Tauren, the curious Pandaren was determined to find and learn about trolls, and their brand of shamanism. He claimed that the Pandaren had similar methods of worshiping elemental spirits, but the spirits of this land were vastly different to those of Pandaria. He'd asked where he might find shamanistic kin who would share wisdom, and Laronar had given him the Tauren, and the trolls. A journey to a troll village was one trip Laronar knew he would never take, as trollish hospitality and Night Elves did not mix well, historically. If the Tauren were stubborn in their dislike of the elves, the trolls of Kalimdor had them beat, easily. They still held grudges for the defeat of an empire no living troll, on Kalimdor, yet remembered.

"The trolls reside mostly on islands east of the barrens, in small tribes. Last I saw them, at least. They know better than to try raiding my people or the Tauren, but they may not hesitate to cook up a lone Pandaren just to learn the flavor. Watch your back, Liu." The druid finished with a bow in the elven style.

* * *

The black and white bear chuckled as he climbed atop the turtle. He had grown again, thanks in no small part to the six hour ritual Laronar had performed to ensure that he _never_ stopped growing. The bear had confided in the elf that he wished to bring others of his kind and show them this wide, wide world, but his ride would only ever become so large. That was when the elf had asked the turtle if he'd mind growing well beyond his species' normal size.

Shen-zin Su had found that amusing, but had accepted, and already in the few days that had passed, he had gained bulk and size far quicker than normal. The druid had, after examining the giant turtle, known he would become rather large regardless. What he, and by extension the land, had given would only expand his potential. "I will be careful, Laronar Stormclaw. Good fortune on your journeys."

With that, the inquisitive bear and his turtle set off to the south once more, where they would swing around the southern coastline of Kalimdor and head up the eastern edge towards the many island-dwellers who had taken the only land that had remained unclaimed after the Sundering. Laronar headed north, towards his old grove, more than a little curious as to what a few millennia had done for it. As his silent wings soared free of the jungle's massive trees, he found what was left of Mashan'she. He flew east from there, and everywhere he looked, the Tauren's territory had either been claimed by other species, or overrun by fast moving dust clouds. He ventured a guess that those were the aforementioned centaur hordes.

* * *

It was only once he swung back around for a proper look at Mashan'she, or Desolace as it would come to be known, that he understood why his people had cut ties. The night colored owl flew silently above the northern wastes, though his heart lightened when he saw Stonetalon, and the first mountains of that region, still bearing life.

He also sensed his old grove, still intact, but flew first to one of his older apprentices, now very much a master in his own right after the better part of nine thousand years of teaching. Thal'darah greeted him, after taking a moment to adjust to his newer...appearance, within his grove.

The master druid sat them down at the top of the grove's tallest tree, for a look at Stonetalon's many valleys, and the view was impressive, as always. "Much has changed since Shan'do Stormrage sent you to Val'sharah, Laronar. Though the more...negative ones have only manifested since the Shifting Sands conflict ended. Every new acolyte we receive from Nighthaven, every single one, has inexplicable intolerance for the Tauren. None would say where they learned such prejudice, but I think you, I, and most druids our age can figure out what is happening."

* * *

Laronar scowled out at the vista. "Most druids _our_ age are asleep, Thero'shan." He sighed heavily. "Staghelm again. He's becoming tiresome."

"Our people love him. Malfurion sleeps endlessly in the Dream, and those who stay awake as his 'guards', or for training, all become influenced by one of the 'greatest druids alive'." Thal'darah crossed his arms, and sighed as well.

"Are there any Tauren left in Nighthaven?" Laronar asked, eyes not moving from the mountains, though by no coincidence, he was facing north, and found himself glaring towards the Moonglade.

"Some...but I have heard chilling rumors. Stonetalon is rapidly becoming a hard, if peacefully shared, border between our peoples." Thal'darah sipped his tea as he finished. Unlike the Moonberry-loving northerners, the elves of Thal'darah's Grove had adopted the Tauren's favored drink, that didn't involve alcohol. Many who now slept under Stonetalon Peak itself had trained in this very grove, while Tauren druid aspirants from many tribes came as well, though in modern times, it was always to learn how better to combat the centaur. Not all had given up on ancient elven wisdom, apparently.

* * *

Laronar glanced around, after sipping his own hot leaf juice, and suppressing a grimace. Making tea was a new trick for the elves, and it showed. "I take it the Cliffwalker tribe has avoided the Centaur from the south?"

Thal'darah grimaced. "Here and in Feralas we have held them at bay with aid from the green dragonflight, or rather, their dragonspawn, and the Tauren native specifically to Stonetalon. The other tribes have fled west, but the Centaur will catch them."

Laronar frowned, and then met his old student's gaze. "Is there no way to help them?"

The other druid looked contemplative as he enjoyed his own view of the surroundings. Druids of all ages, teaching, talking, training. All branches, commingling together in peace. Two peoples with enough old hatreds between them to fill a library, and yet in druidism, they were united. "When one's enemy is chasing something you wish to keep alive, it is best to strike at where they are weakest, and hold their most valuable things." He said, quoting his old master, who had at the time of teaching this lesson, been quoting Ashamane. "The Centaur are on the rampage. They are fury incarnate. Zaetar's power has not easily blended with the earth elemental's. Time has only made them stronger."

The Feral Druid smirked at his apprentice, as they stood slowly, at the same time, reaching the same conclusion. "Time has only made _us_ stronger as well...let us teach these abominations of Cenarius' nature why they should be very afraid of the druids who roam these wilds."

* * *

 **Elune's Brazier - Desolace**

* * *

Another piece of satyr flesh was tossed into the silver flames of the ornate, and ancient brazier dedicated to the Moon Goddess. The priestess who was after her blessing had been guided to these relics of an empire long passed by way of visions. Remnants of the demonic taint had taken the area as a home, and Elune had wished them purged. As always, when the mother moon asked, Alaria Stormclaw answered her.

She sighed softly as she felt the blessing, and the satisfaction from her patron in the sky. Then, she set about cleaning. She had, for obvious reasons, taken claw markings upon her face when she'd reached maturity, and her blue hair, also covered in satyr gore, was bound in a simple braid. She was not dressed like one might expect a priestess of the Moon Goddess to dress, but then, she'd stopped acting like the rest of her sisters long ago.

After Loreth'aran had been sacked by black dragons, and those upon the island slaughtered to the last elf, Alaria had found herself on Kalimdor, dropped there by her lover's drake, who had returned, likely only to die beside his rider. They hadn't come back. Hungry and alone, she'd wandered for days on naught but what she had perceived as guidance from the moon. That, was when she'd found the sword. Kal'serrar. It was a lengthy blade, curved not unlike a warglaive, but undoubtedly a sword in design.

* * *

In those days, the demons had all but run rampant across Kalimdor, and as such, they had brought ruin to almost every elven settlement in the empire. Alaria had come across one such settlement, and found the slaughtered corpses of a group of fellow sisters, all dressed in silvery plate armor, and armed with blades whose like she had not seen before. All but one had been broken, and that one, she had been bid to take up by the Goddess herself.

Since doing so, Elune had empowered her, making her far better at fighting in close combat. The young priestess had scavenged what armor hadn't been torn asunder, as well as the rations her departed sisters no longer needed, before setting off, again guided by the moon's light, towards demon sect after demon sect, rampaging wildly across the continent. She had continued this for months, slowly teaching herself how best to use the sword, when quite suddenly, the demons she'd tracked had been ripped away by an inexplicably powerful force, through the sky, and towards what she assumed was Zin'Azshari.

Upon reconnecting with what was left of the Sisterhood at Hyjal, the new High Priestess had wanted to store the curved, silver-glowing blade away, as a treasured relic of a now passed age, but Alaria had refused to give it up. Eventually, Tyrande had stopped asking, for the Moon Goddess had not weighed in either, and the blade had, somehow, burned the hand of whoever else tried wielding it. Alaria had been taught then in the same manner as the rest of the surviving Sisterhood, until the War of the Satyr.

* * *

She had been transferred to the Sentinel's care after that, and after learning her surname, for reasons the Ranger General had never shared, Shandris Feathermoon had granted her leave to do as she saw fit, and take her commands from Elune first, and herself second. For the better part of her Long Vigil, Alaria had hunted the surviving satyrs, guided by visions and feelings every so often. This current mission, was only the latest in a long, long line of demon slaying.

Her silver eyes glanced out at the carnage now befouling the ruins with demonic blood, and the 'war priestess' sighed. She wiped the silvery blade clean, and sheathed it once more upon her back, thinking her task done. She paused though, as she felt a familiar guidance draw her gaze to the sky. She did not know why, until she spied a pair of birds, an owl and a Storm Crow, heading south towards one of the centaur's camps.

Alaria glanced up at the moon, smiling slightly as the light rejuvenated her, and then pointed her in the same direction. She was more warrior than priestess, according to her fellow worshipers, but she had always argued that while healing and light were essential, Elune also required those who could, and would, do the more grisly tasks she required. The priestess hopped on her Frostsaber then, and followed the birds. She knew they were likely druids, and for them to still be awake, they must have held some importance among the male's Circle.

* * *

From a distance, she watched as they descended on the northernmost centaur tribe, now mostly free of warriors, who were even then marauding to the east, and chasing the Tauren. She had never much liked the bull men, but they were typically peaceful, defended the land, and were historically on good terms with the Sentinels. She understood why the Kaldorei refused to aid them, namely because they were still recovering from their own most recent conflict, but it seemed these druids were intent on drawing the hordes back home. It was a sound tactical move, given that the majority of the hordes were off chasing the Tauren.

Lightning and wind tore apart the tents, and a massive black maned panther took care of the casters and female fighters the centaur possessed. She did not see what happened to the centaur young, but judging by the flames and wrecked domiciles, she guessed the druids would leave them to their fate. It was not long before they were in the air again, heading towards the next encampment. Already, what few survivors there were from the now ruined one were heading east. It would not be too long before the hordes turned around.

Alaria rode up again to the second encampment, and this time, leapt into the fray. The light of her patron surrounded her with surprising intensity, and though the druids seemed startled by her appearance, clad in plate armor and covered in satyr remnants, and now pieces of centaur as well, they welcomed her aid. Once the tents were aflame and the inhabitants all but wiped out, the druids again flew off, and Alaria followed.

* * *

Not far from the camp, the three Kaldorei met properly. Thal'darah introduced himself first. "I am the master of Thal'darah Grove, in Stonetalon. Thank you, Priestess, for aiding us. I am curious though...why is one such as yourself out here, of all places?"

The owl, who had just landed beside them, was eyeing her with amber eyes that were too intense for her liking, and yet, somehow so very familiar. First the first time in almost ten millennia, she found herself recalling her middle brother, and his own amber eyes. She never found out what had become of him, or Vehlar. The war had completely broken her ties to family, but then, that had been the norm, in those days.

"Well met, Master Thal'darah. I was guided here by Elune. Some Satyrs had taken up residence in the ruin of one of her old temples." She patted the hilt of the blade on her back. "I removed them." The druid nodded in approval, as the other resumed his own form. By this point, Alaria expected druids to, in some way, resemble their favored patrons, and this one was no different.

* * *

Other instincts guided her eyes up the almost too-lean frame, and the muscles adorning it, but those instincts vanished into the void as their eyes met. She knew that face, though it was now bearded, and the wrong color. He was even still lacking a shirt, and as he spoke, she knew it beyond a doubt. Her middle brother had survived. "There are three more Centaur camps out here...I say we split them between us. How about it, Priestess?"

Where the sister had recognized the brother, Laronar had evidently not caught on yet, which made some sense. He likely thought her long dead, and she had been a youthful teen when last they'd seen each other. She had mature assets now, generous ones, according to some males, and quite a few females, but that was to be expected when one brought children into existence. The process had never ruined her form, nor had it made her give up her sword. She looked to Elune for guidance, and that was when she noticed. The moonlight was pointedly avoiding her brother.

She stared at him for a long time, wondering what on Azeroth had possessed him to anger their race's strongest ally, when she noticed. He had the look of a druid who'd slept too long in one of their forms, as if he might bite at her with no warning or provocation. "Yes...that would be best. I spied outrunners already heading west...the hordes will turn around soon. They must not know who has done this to them."

* * *

Laronar shook his head. "We _want_ them to know it was us, or at least, Night Elves. Better to have them rebuilding, and on the defensive, instead of constantly charging after the Tauren. They may try to retaliate against Feralas but...I think Shandris can handle them."

Alaria blinked, once, at the casual use of the Ranger-General's first name. Thal'darah didn't seem to take notice, which implied he knew _why_ her brother was on a first-name basis with the second most influential Kaldorei woman alive. She had heard rumor, of course, that the General had secret carnal relations with some druid once upon a time, but the odds of it being Laronar were astronomically sma- She paused in her musing, as the moon above drew her attention back to her task as only she could. Eyes narrowing slightly, Alaria nodded to herself. She'd just have to ask Shandris directly. "Very well...let the Centaur understand that they must be ever vigilant against us."

She drew Kal'serrar then, hopped on her Frostsaber, and began sprinting, rather obviously, towards the northernmost camp on the western coast of Mashan'she's lifeless land. The two druids split as well, with Thal'darah heading almost to the edge of Feralas, and Laronar taking the camp in between them. Alaria swung around, avoiding her own camp for the moment, as she watched her brother's tactics once more.

* * *

He was as quick and efficient as any Nightwalker the Sentinels employed, and his form's fangs were likely as sharp as any of their blades. Even in his panther form though, the moon avoided lighting the black furred druid. In the far distance, smoke began rising from yet more lightning strikes and a massive tornado followed soon after. Not wanting to be outdone, the Priestess headed for her own target.

She hid her obvious colored mount away from prying eyes atop a small rise just outside the settlement. Survivors of the last two raids had fled here, apparently, and security was high. It seemed centaur females were just as capable warriors as their men, which meant those left behind must have been leading, or raising children. Likely both.

Even the young were, to her eyes, abominations of what they should have been. She had befriended more than a few Dryads in her long, usually solo travels during her Vigil. She knew what centaurs were supposed to look like, though she had never seen Theradras, or any earth elemental for that matter. "Moon's shadow, come over me…" she whispered, beginning the elvish chant that, after much meditation, her patron had shared with her by way of visions. She raised Kal'serrar into the night air, and saw those below begin to take notice of the harbinger of their fate. "Star sword...my light in the darkness...awaken!"

* * *

She felt her form double in size, and the rage of combat filled her vision. She leapt into the camp from her perch, and landed among the centaur with all the fury of an Infernal. Kal'serrar cut through centaur flesh as easily as it had satyrs, and everything else she tested it against. The centaur tried to rush her all at once, but the priestess only grinned. That was what she had wanted.

Time seemed to slow as the moment to counter came, and her supernatural parrying of their blows ticked over. The priestess began to spin in place then, and centaur limbs went flying as the whirlwind of death tore through the majority of the tribe. She mercifully executed those who survived the deep wounds she'd left them with, and pummeled those who tried to cast spells her way into bloody pulp. She let the sword guide her body, as she always had, for it knew how best to keep her alive, and where it needed to be to continue to do so.

Spears broke in half, casters were left armless, and one by one, the unusual priestess reduced her enemy to nothing. Then, she turned to the tents, and finished her chant. "Light of Elune, burn in the darkness!" She raised the sword high, and columns of divine flame came down on the flammable tents. Survivors began trying to flee, but Alaria charged after them, ending them one by one. The young, she largely ignored, unless they too tried to fight her. More than a few did, and hearing their cries as the life left them made the priestess as sick as she always felt when dispatching the young and foolish. Be it harpies or centaurs, she did not know of an elf who enjoyed putting down youthful potential. But she did it anyway, for the blade had awoken and Elune demanded death, in return for her gifts of strength.

* * *

She walked out of the camp towards her mount, only to find that four enterprising outrunners had found the cat first. Three lay dead, torn apart by a frenzy of claws, but the last had her spear in the Frostsaber's chest. Alaria knew a mortal blow when she saw one, and as the light left her mount's eyes, the rage returned, in full.

Before the centaur responsible could so much as blink, Alaria was there, and with four very angry, very deep strikes, she left the mortal world alongside the cat she had killed. Alaria raised her hands, calling on her goddess' healing light, but the spell did not take. There was no life left to heal or rejuvenate.

She didn't notice the tears cutting through the grime on her cheeks as she took her friend's fangs, but the two druids who landed nearby certainly did. Laronar came over first, and the priestess watched as she saw genuine sadness come over his features. "Frostsabers are among the most ferocious of Nightsabers...it is a shame such a powerful female has fallen in so small a conflict." He knelt beside the body, and placed a hand upon the cat's forehead. "Ashamane, guide her home."

* * *

"Home?" Alaria managed, noticing for the first time how her voice broke in the attempt at speaking.

Laronar nodded. "The Dream is home to many spirits of those long departed. Ashamane is the mother of all Nightsabers. She will guide your friend to the dens of her kin."

Alaria arched a brow, now more curious, as her brother seemed to know what he was talking about. "There are...dens in the Dream as well?"

He nodded again, tone as solemn as hers. "I have visited them. The Frostsabers in particular have a very impressive resting space."

"Like Frostsaber rock…" Alaria muttered, eyes moving back to her fallen friend.

"The pride in the Dream has a different name for theirs...but yes. It is similar, though much, much larger. She will be happy there. Now come, quickly, they will regroup in short order. There was a nasty Shaman among mine who managed to get away...definitely a leader. We should depart before they realize where we are." Laronar had patted her shoulder in the same friendly-yet-awkward manner he'd had with females in their younger days, and then stood as he spoke. "Do you wish to come with us? We are heading for Stonetalon."

* * *

Alaria shook her head. "I'm going to Feathermoon Stronghold. I have business there."

"Then go safely, daughter of the Moon." Thal'darah chimed in, approaching the two as the moment they'd been having ended. "We must return, and quickly, I think. That sandstorm on the horizon is not natural…"

"It is fueled by rage...the earth is filled with it...yes, let us depart." Laronar said, agreeing with his contemporary. He gave Alaria a nod as well. "Moonspeed, Priestess."

With that, the two druids shifted forms, and began winging their way towards Stonetalon. Alaria sighed, regretting not getting the chance to have a proper family reunion, but 'hey, by the way I'm your long-dead sister' had not seemed like the right thing to say in this particular moment. She would find her brother again, but first, she wished to know why a certain Ranger-General had failed to mention he was alive in the first place.

Blade drawn, the priestess headed for Feralas, fully expecting to be ambushed at some point on the road. Her once silver, purple, and white armor was covered in gore and blood, as was her blade. Any surviving female centaur that saw her would likely correctly assume she had played a role in what was likely their kind's first racial tragedy.


	18. The Price of Rage

**The Price of Rage**

* * *

 **Nighthaven - Moonglade**

* * *

Laronar Stormclaw was perched upon one of the elevated peaks just outside of Nighthaven, in his owl form, watching the goings on of the druids below. His sharp eyes noticed several worrying things. The Wardens of the glade, typically elves and Tauren devoted to defending nature, were now almost entirely elves, who were garbed in armor that any veteran of the Shifting Sands conflict would recognize. The plate armor of Fandral Staghelm's 'Cenarion Infantry'.

The inn closest to him yet retained Tauren guards, and from what he saw, most of the Tauren populace of Nighthaven as well. It seemed that, at some point, they had all been moved to the establishment, though the elves within still seemed friendly with the bull men, which was something. Far too often though, he saw druids below, wearing the markings of the Cenarion Circle, sneering in the general direction of the inn, and the Tauren watching over it. Thal'darah had been correct. Nighthaven, the most populated town the elves had since the Sundering, was firmly under Fandral's influence.

He spent most of the day watching the Tauren go about their business, and noticed several other things. Vendors outside of their inn, refused them service. Druid trainers actively kept them away from both of Nighthaven's Moonwells, and whenever one of the trainees did leave the inn, he or she received silent, stony stares the entire time. Having seen Nighthaven as it was, in his mind, supposed to be, a place of peace, learning, and unity for both their peoples, seeing what Fandral had turned it into pricked a nerve. The druid shifted in place more than once as the simmering rage and frustration mixed within. It was as if Staghelm's deep seated racism refused to let them study in peace as nature, and Malfurion, had intended.

* * *

When he could finally watch no more, night had fallen, and every Tauren resident he'd seen had returned to the inn. The owl descended from his perch silently, and flew inside, landing on a rafter. Below, he spied several basic campfires, each with several Tauren looking up at him curiously. The innkeeper, My'lanna, looked up at him as well, hands on her hips. "Not in _my_ inn. Down here, druid."

If owls could smirk, Laronar would've done so, but in a show of graceful acrobatics, he let his form fall backwards, and rotated in the air, as he suddenly had legs again. It was a jarring experience for his eyes, but his body, much like a cat's, tended to automatically right itself. He bowed, smirking now, at the innkeeper. "My'lanna. I haven't seen you since...that one Lunar Festival...must've been several centuries back by now. Forgive my memory, Dream-walking tends to make me...scattered."

She blinked, twice, and if he didn't know better, he would've sworn she turned a shade darker. "Laronar Stormclaw. Of course you're here, _tonight_ of all nights. Your timing really is terrible."

He arched a brow, as he glanced around at the Tauren. He did not know them personally, but a few seemed to visibly brighten at his name. A good sign, hopefully. "Why? What happens tonight?"

* * *

A familiar, and welcome, voice joined them. "Tonight, Fandral Staghelm will attempt to, not for the first time, evict our Tauren friends here from their jobs and homes, to wander Kalimdor, and be run down by Centaur. I don't intend to let him...but honestly, until you showed up, I was convinced he'd get away with it." A smiling Naralex offered a hand as he strolled down a ramp with several elven acolytes in tow.

Laronar grasped it, smirk widening into a rare smile. "Naralex...I haven't seen you since these woods threatened to be overrun with Satyr. It seems my arrival is timely, if you're awake to deal with this...Thal'darah said it was bad, but this…"

Naralex sighed heavily. "It's...beyond bad. These elves from Silithus...they came up here with Fandral, and have been spreading anti-Tauren rhetoric since they arrived. The younger generation, male and female, were lured in by their war stories, and have since been...influenced. Now Staghelm's infantry is poaching promising females for its ranks as well. It has never been this bad, brother…"

Laronar shrugged, and placed a reassuring hand on Naralex's shoulder. "Don't worry...Fandral is many things, but he is still a druid, and a Kaldorei. We can talk this over, like civilized sentients."

* * *

"Can we…" A new voice joined them, and Laronar didn't have to turn to know it. There was something about it, about the elf it belonged to, that made his hackles rise. But he pointedly ignored his own prejudices, and tried to stay objective. He turned as Fandral Staghelm, flanked by no less than twenty of a mixed assortment of druids and 'infantry', kept speaking. "You're woefully out of the loop on this, Stormclaw. These issues have festered for years in my town. No longer. It ends tonight."

" _Your_ town?" Laronar said, failing to suppress a chuckle, "What issues have these good Tauren caused, Archdruid Staghelm? I admit I don't personally know them, but our friend Naralex does, and I knew their grandsires. I vouched for them in the past, and I will gladly do so again now. These are _allies_ of nature. You knew that, once. Nighthaven is to be _shared_. Or has Malfurion's decree been overturned by him, or Cenarius? Remulos, perhaps? Has anyone, besides you and your stout warriors from the south, actually changed their mind on this issue?"

Fandral's patience, already thin when Laronar had last witnessed it, seemed to have all but evaporated in the years since losing his son. He was different, that much was obvious, but Laronar still could not figure out _why_ the druid rubbed him so wrongly. It went beyond his haughtiness and racism at this point. He was still keeping an open mind, and paying respect where, admittedly, it was due. Something dark was still pricking his sixth sense though. He decided to meditate on it later. After a long moment, Staghelm spoke. "They would, if they knew the trouble these...lesser beings...have been causing in our most sacred grove."

* * *

One of the younger bulls was on his feet, and snorting. His head was raised though, a good sign, since lowering it usually preceded a charge. "This...snake tongued schemer has stolen our homes and our businesses! In good faith we traded with him, and now, he attempts to banish us to tribes we do not remember, against an enemy we have never faced."

Laronar glanced between Fandral, the bull, and Naralex, who nodded his way. He turned back to Fandral. "Let me guess. You signed contracts with their businesses, using elven subtext to rob them blind, since they do not read our script very well."

The standing Tauren blinked at him. "How did you…?"

Naralex spoke up then, fixing Fandral with a glare. "He's tried this before...it helped get him sentenced to the far corners of the world, but his racism persists, it seems, despite the punishments he has received for it…"

Fandral glared back at them, and the more Laronar looked at him, really looked at him, the more insistent the wrongness he was feeling was becoming. He'd known Fandral Staghelm for the better part of ten millennia, and while they had not always been friends, it was not until that moment that Laronar considered him an enemy, one that seemed determined to oppose what the Circle stood for. "I have been punished in ways you wandering, loveless ferals can only imagine in your darkest nightmares. No more. The Moonglade shall no longer be fouled by the presence of lesser druids."

* * *

He focused on Laronar and Naralex then, ignoring the people he was displacing entirely with the callousness of one who considered their worth next to nothing. "Brothers, the Shifting Sands left us devastated...entire barrow dens, vacant. Archdruids of thousands of years, gone, lost forever to the sands of that felish region. Join me in Nighthaven. We must rebuild...and quickly. We must be stronger than we ever have before. The bugs are not done. You both know this as I do. You were there."

Naralex spoke first after considering Staghelm's words for about a second. "If racism and treachery are what you are building this...new Circle...around, you may leave me out of it." He glanced at Laronar then. "I will guide these Tauren south...and lend my aid until they find a tribe willing to accept them."

Laronar shook his head. "This isn't right. We cannot just...let this happen. Naralex, if we do, we backslide on the progress of thousands of years, and no small amount of Tauren lives lived in friendship within this very glade."

* * *

"And what are you going to do, Stormclaw?" Fandral's mocking voice cut through their conversation once more. The smirking, beardless Archdruid sneered at his contemporary. "Fight me? Maul me in the street, until I change my mind on these beasts you love so much?"

A low growl rumbled through the inn, and Laronar soon found a pair of hands on his shoulders. One from Naralex, and My'lanna. "He's not worth it…" One of them muttered, but the feral druid was beyond their hearing now, and Fandral knew it, as the druid stepped into the shadows just before the inn's entrance, towards him, amber eyes ablaze in the shadow. Fandral stepped forward as well, open palms flaring with sigils of entirely too much arcane.

As Laronar stepped into the moonlight, Staghelm got a proper look at the fury he'd roused. Laronar's arms now resembled something between elf and panther, not entirely unlike how the Worgen had manifested their own changes. Each 'paw' flared with natural wrath that even the greenest acolyte was familiar with. "Is that what it's going to take, Fandral? A duel? Once I knock some sense into your skull, you will never again try to force these Tauren from their home here. What say you?"

Fandral answered him as he fired a series of arcane missiles. "So be it. To the faint." Laronar slashed through the druid's arcane barrage, as he closed in no his opponent. By instinct, he almost lifted his head to go for Fandral's neck, only to then realize he was still an elf. He made a final, if somewhat half-hearted swipe at Fandral. Not enough to kill, no, but he was in the mood to give this druid in particular a strong reminder of why nobody wishing to live messed with Feral druids.

* * *

Fandral came away with bloody streaks down his forearms, which had risen to protect his face. Something came over him then, a shift, a change in the tone of the duel that got even Ashamane's attention, for Laronar felt her eyes upon him quite suddenly. "You're looking more cat than elf, Stormclaw. Losing to the rage, are we? Finally crossing that line?" The druid sneered. "I always knew you would follow a path similar to Ralaar's."

Laronar stared the other elf down, and when he spoke his voice came out in far too much of a growl, "If I was having the same problems as Ralaar, Staghelm, I'd be down already…" The energy in his palms flared then, as he finished the spell. Silvery thorns protruded from his still mostly elven abdomen, as well as the rest of his body.

The amber eyes of his opponent narrowed, and several things happened at once. Ashamane urged his instinct to shift into her form, for that could be far more easily healed by her. If his elven form was seriously damaged, it would take his own knowledge, or another elf's, to mend.

At that same instant, Fandral Staghelm took off his kid gloves, as fist of rock and earth upended one of Nighthaven's own stone paths, and took the Feral druid in the chin with all the force of a Shoryuken. Laronar felt his mind go blank as his body responded to his patron's call, and in that moment, he felt it. The rage and fury of nature he had willingly embraced, but always had the mental fortitude to control, and limit, as needed. It surged, as the one person he genuinely disliked became the center of his reddening vision. Pain clouded his mind, and in that pain, something else rose to the fore. The beast within, still a part of him, but struggling now to, for some reason, tear free and maul the elf before him.

It wasn't with blind anger though. The wild part of him was telling him to end this elf, for reasons he could not rightly comprehend in that moment of blind pain. It was pure instinct, and his body reacted to it before he could think.

* * *

His fangs became longer, the fur traced up his still elven arms, appearing over the rest of his body. That strike had been intended to kill him, of that, Laronar was sure. He knew when his opponents wanted his life, he fought often in the wilds, and in war. Whatever he had become, it was, to his inner monologue, a monstrosity of the form he so loved and honed.

He didn't have long to lament his new state, for his body was moving again on its own, focused upon tearing apart the other druid. He leapt, claws extended from his five fingers as he prepared to shred Staghelm to pieces. He likely would have, for he was quick, but another's timely intervention saved him from becoming a murderer, and upsetting plans none of the gathered druids were yet aware of.

Entangling vines bound his snarling form, and Laronar fought it for control, as he saw who was casting said vines. Remulos was a direct descendant of Cenarius, and a friend. The struggling elf-panther ceased, entrapped in vines as Ralaar had been, and though he tried to free himself, the roots remained deaf to his commands. He also noticed his Barkskin fade, and knew he had messed up significantly this time. Reclaiming his actual shape would be much harder.

* * *

"I am not mad at you Laronar...merely disappointed. For over nine thousand years you have been an example to those who follow your arts, a master of yourself, and now...you have perverted your patron's form with your rage. You have let the beast take control, and so a beast you will become...and a beast you shall stay." The Keeper's word struck home, and he lowered the roots entangling him, as he found himself instinctively standing, if one could call it that, on all four gangly limbs.

"Is...there no way...to stop this?" He found forming words suddenly much harder than normal, as his mouth was only half appropriately shaped to even make them.

Remulos shook his head. "You were warned when you and the other druids first sought to expand your knowledge of taking the shapes of nature's defenders. Giving in to the rage, turns you into what you favor most. I have never seen a druid, of any race, recover from this fate, and many who have given in to their wild side simply become part of the natural hierarchy...joining it even in death. You can certainly try to avoid this fate...but nothing I or Ashamane can do now will stop it."

Laronar glanced up at Staghelm, who was smirking entirely too smugly. He growled, and forced out words once more. "And this...are you going to allow it? Will you let this scheming racist displace these innocent Tauren, and fellow protectors of the wild?"

* * *

Remulos raised a hand halfway through his increasingly angry words. "I do not take part in the politics of your races. None of my kin do. We keep to our own as you keep to yours. It is...better for all if we do not influence your civilization, beyond teaching you how to coexist with nature, and better defend it. All I ask as Keeper of this glade is that the _peace_ not be disturbed."

Laronar's eyes shifted from Naralex and the Tauren within the in, to Fandral's group. All had similar expressions of disgust or fear, and finally, he focused them back on Remulos as he forced the words to come forth. His Rs were lengthy, and he had pauses in his snarling speech, but he managed. "All evil requires to flourish...is the inaction of those who are good. You will regret this...Keeper...before your days are ended...this Circle is no longer the brotherhood I helped form...we have let this obsession with Dreaming cloud our eyes...to the darkness right under our noses...I will not be part of it...not if this is what we are allowing now."

He strode towards Remulos then, and a pair of Dryads appeared from the bushes beside him, spears raised. The Keeper raised his hand, though, for the druid had not attempted to attack him. Even in this stilted state, he had remarkable control. It would not save him though. Not now. Laronar spoke again, standing to his full height of roughly ten feet, in his new form. Being bipedal was not something his half-shifted spine liked, but as with the difficulty of speech, he ignored it. "The Moonglade is yours to keep...but it will not be, if you allow Staghelm to rule it unchallenged…with his own personal army." He turned then, towards the inn, and let out something between a snarl and a sigh. "If the demons return...summon me. Otherwise, I will have no part of this...racism towards those...who have ever been allies."

He loped off then, through the inn, ignoring the looks and words of the elves and Tauren. He tried running, and was awkward at it. His cat form's gait had always been smooth, ideal for a hunter, but this form, while it certainly had strength, was not evenly balanced, and his pace was slowed by his awkward limbs of differing lengths.

* * *

Laronar made his way through Ashenvale, as stealthy as ever, and back into Stonetalon. He did not reach for Ashamane or his magic, not yet, as he only had one idea as to what he could do to save himself from becoming little more than a very strong animal for all of time. He enjoyed living in the wilds, but he also enjoyed thumbs, women, and the occasional foray into his people's civilization. For those, he would need to fix himself.

He found mountain climbing surprisingly easy in his altered form, with long limbs and claws, he made short work of Stonetalon's tallest peaks, behind which was a grove he was long familiar with. As he crested the top of one such peak, he looked down, and spied a glade teeming with life. There were more trees than when he'd last visited, and from his lofty perch, he even spied quite a few of Cenarius' children. No doubt keeping the land, as they had promised they would.

He descended rapidly, which caught their attention, and the forms of the dryads and Keepers vanished into the foliage as the strange creature approached the woods. He paused at the edge, and waited. A Keeper of the Grove formed before him, appearing much as Cenarius had, in his experience. Whirlwind of leaves and detritus coalesced into a being whose upper torso was as aesthetically pleasing as any Kaldorei. "Laronar Stormclaw...it has been some time. I heard from Remulos that you might head this way...and why...you are not welcome here, if more violence is what you intend."

* * *

Laronar was surprised at the strength of his rage, the sudden urge to claw the Keeper to pieces for barring him from what he considered to be his oldest home, but he resisted all the same. The result, was a soft snarl. "This...is my home...Keeper. Do not forget that...you are here because _I_ gave this land _my_ energy...and made it flourish. You...are tending my legacy. I will do as I please...in my own bloody forest…"

The Keeper's neutral handsome expression shifted into a frown, but he did not bar the elf-cat's way as he loped into the woods, and towards the old shack that had been his shelter while learning restoration magic. He found it in a state of disrepair, home to a number of squirrels, who had taken advantage of the fallen roof with the first of the winter chills in the air. Finding nothing of use, and noting that, at some point in the thousands of years since he was last here, someone had rifled through his stuff, he sighed, and left. It was a home no longer, not for elves anyway, and he did not currently have the magic to make it suitable again.

As he turned and left, fully ready to dash into the woods, sate his hunger, and leave, he sensed a shift in the trees around him, and whirled. He hated not having his sixth sense, the one that had always allowed him to detect, to an extent, other magical beings. Had he possessed it still, he might have noticed the Tree of Eternity that had sprung up behind his house.

* * *

The massive Ancient turned towards him, and spoke. "Your...energy...I know it. I have...grown upon it...you gave much...to this land…" The massive tree leaned over his dilapidated house. "...and now...you find yourself...stuck. Cut off...this...I can help with…" Before Laronar had a moment to even blink, orange swirls lit the gnarled fingers of the ancient tree, and then flowed into his shifted form.

His perspective changed, the world became greener, and as he again looked at his house, he found it was gone. In its place, lay a massive, ash-colored panther, head on her paws. She let out a long sigh, as the elf she had favored for over nine millennia bowed before her in a form twisted by rage and poor timing. She felt slightly responsible, as she had pushed him to change in the first place.

 _I was wondering when you would make it here...or if you still even could. You have properly messed up this time, Laronar. It will take some time to fix. Even for me._ The massive, translucent panther stood, and walked over to the awkwardly crouching elf-cat.

He looked up at her as she came close. "Then there is a way to fix this? I do not fancy being a cat _all_ the time." A smirk crossed the twisted visage. "Just most of it."

* * *

The panther Ancient snorted at his words, an expression he recognized as her version of a chuckle. _I can fix your form, but it will cost you...you must become my Avatar on the waking plane. About six centuries you will have to sleep, but, when you awaken, you will find your forms, both mine and your original, much stronger._

Laronar glanced at his body then, and frowned slightly. "Is there no way to master this form? It has potential...for war, if not stealth. Much like the Worgen."

 _This shape is a twisted perversion of the gift I first gave you long ago. It is best if you forget it, and focus on honing that which you have already begun to master._ The Ancient spirit loomed over his own semi-corporeal form. _What say you, druid?_

Laronar glanced at the ground for a moment, and then looked back up at his patron, she who had always guided him well, answered his questions, and acted as a truer friend than most of his own kind ever had. "Very well. A few hundred years asleep is worth having my body back...and Azeroth will benefit from having you walk it again." He stood closer to her, and met her burning gaze. "I offer my body as your vessel, willingly and without coercion."

 _And I accept, that which is freely given…_ The panther's amber orbs flared, and that, was the last thing that Laronar remembered.

* * *

 **The Hinterlands - Eastern Kingdoms, Six Hundred Years Later…**

* * *

From his perspective, the next thing Laronar was aware of, was an unfamiliar forest, in an unfamiliar land. He looked up, and found the moons in the sky, but the stars around them were different, as if he was not on Kalimdor anymore. He looked at his body then, and found himself once more in the shape of an elf, though the cat-like influences had only increased. His incisors had lengthened into sizeable fangs, for an elf, and his muscles seemed harder, and there were more of them than there had been the last time he'd seen his limbs. He felt stronger all over, and it was not only physical.

His senses were far more attuned than they had been before, and while Kaldorei typically stood at the top of the sight and hearing spectrum, his own range of perceptiveness now included smells as well, for he could catch many, with a single inhalation. He was used to his animal form's perception of them, but eventually, he managed to sort that which he knew, from that which was unfamiliar. Then, he noticed his own scent had changed, and seemed to have some layered potency to it that his own nostrils appeared immune to. Amongst his scent, was the smell of decay, and immediately, he realized much of his reagents must have been left in wherever such things went when a druid shifted their form. For hundreds of years.

He thankfully found all his pouches where he'd left them, though the food within, recently procured from his perspective, had turned to rotten remnants of berry goo stuck to the jerky he'd kept alongside the fruit. He sighed, emptied the food, and then realized he was rather hungry. He reached out for Ashamane, but she was far, far away and seemed preoccupied. She did acknowledge him though, as energy surged within his form, familiar and entirely welcome. He shifted his shape, and again took the form of a cat.

He looked as much like his patron as he always had, but now, he sized himself at roughly the same size as Storm, perhaps slightly smaller but just as well muscled, if his friend had continued to grow over the century he did not remember. He sniffed the air of the unfamiliar woods, and sighed. Nothing smelled familiar, and there was a predatory scent throughout the region's air. He ventured a guess that whatever hunted in this strange, albeit flourishing land, was an apex predator.

* * *

He did not run into whatever ruled over these woods though, as he hunted, and brought down a stag. He let his form consume the meal, an offering of sorts to his patron, and something his stomach could digest. Once he was sated with food and drink from a small river, Laronar shifted into his owl form, just to make sure he could, but once he was above the trees his delight at being able to fly again was replaced by disbelief, as one of the mountains on the horizon seemed to be staring back at him.

He only had a brief moment to admire the very obviously carved mountainside, and wonder who made it, before he heard a pair of flapping wings, and a screech that tore the air, not entirely unlike his owl form's. To his owl ears though, it sounded more eagle than owl. The source of the shriek came barreling past, as he let himself fall in the air, suddenly, dodging a pair of large talons that grasped the space he'd occupied a moment earlier.

He got his first good look at the creature as it banked around towards him, but even then, his confusion only rose. It seemed half lion, half eagle, and yet he had never heard of such a beast. If they existed in Kalimdor, he was sure the Tauren would've ridden them. Two of their more popular totems in the same animal would've made for good mounts. The creature was large as well, looking more than capable of lifting a bull man, if it had to.

* * *

As the predatory hybrid creature, which seemed natural to his senses, and not a magical aberration, came towards him again he turned his wings towards a lake, near the middle of the region. A few tents were pitched on the southern shore of it, but they looked too small for trolls, Tauren, or Kaldorei. That, was when things started to click. Small dwellings and masterful stonework? He knew of only one race that was short and skilled with stone shaping, but he had never actually met a dwarf. They had been considered extinct, after the Sundering. Knowing dwarves, or rather, what his people had known of them almost ten thousand years prior, they'd likely gone underground, hidden from the few elven eyes that watched this continent.

Laronar flew close to the lake, snagged a fish near the surface, and then lifted up again, towards the mountains immediately behind the lake, that helped form the natural bowl-shape this forest inhabited. The creature had followed him, and roused the inhabitants of the tents with another shriek, but as Laronar arced upwards again, gaining height on the creature, he let the fish fall, and the bird-lion paused, eyes moving from the owl as the easier meal took priority. Laronar smirked to himself, and then landed on a tree on the mountainside, blending into the shadows as only his race could.

* * *

He watched the creature then, as it tore the relatively large fish apart in the air, and then remembered it had been hunting an intruder to its airspace. It looked around for only a brief moment, before a rope from below with a noose on the end landed around the creature's neck, and dragged it towards the earth. The animal squawked in protest, but then, another of its kind, one wearing metalworked armor plates, joined it in the air. The struggles lessened, and the pair landed. On the ground, the figures from the tents, who had revealed themselves to be dwarf-shaped, swarmed the creature, feeding it, and then breaking into some kind of celebration when it accepted their food, and didn't fly off.

Somewhat curious, Laronar watched from above. The sound of their words was cut off by the rush of a waterfall, leading into the lake to his right, but from the movement of their mouths, they were speaking the dwarven tongue, and hearing their words wouldn't have mattered. About an hour later, another creature appeared, drinking from the lake, and again the dwarves lassoed and dragged it down with the aid of the one they'd armored and brought with them. Again it found a partner, and again, the celebratory ale was brought out. Then, the dwarves with a new pair of mounts to ride had them saddled with what he recognized as training saddles, not all that different to those used on Nightsabers, and they were in the air moments later.

Laronar chuffed quietly to himself. Flying dwarves. Just when he'd been convinced he'd seen everything. He watched them for a time, curiosity genuinely piqued, as to how exactly they armored such a creature. One of the main reasons such suits were rare for Nightsabers was due to the cat's size steadily increasing as they aged through centuries. That, and the fluid movement of their gait needing to remain unhampered.

* * *

As they mounted their new catches and headed towards the peak that, Laronar now realized, resembled these hybrid bird-cat creatures, he followed, silently, and watched as they brought them to a strange dwarf. His clothing was mostly feathers, but as Laronar perched closer, he saw there was metal beneath them. He wielded a pair of hammers, and after he measured the new creatures, he turned to his forge, and hammered out several plates for their heads, chests, and talons with impressive speed.

Once the armored creatures left with their partners, the hammering dwarf retired to the back of his forge, lit up a pipe full of a brown herb Laronar didn't recognize, and sat in his bedside chair, scowling at the entrance as he puffed. Laronar let the sun fall below the relatively high horizon line of this land before he landed at the entrance of the smith's cave-forge, and fixed the dwarf with a stare from the very much unnatural amber eyes.

* * *

The dwarf traced a J-like symbol in the air, one Laronar recognized, and the accompanying pinch of salt and soot followed soon after. By the time it had landed on his form, he had shifted back to his elven shape, and bowed fist to palm before the dwarf.

He spoke first, with an accent that even the language comprehension spell couldn't entirely erase. "I had a feelin' we had elfie eyes upon us this night. Speak then. Why've ye come? Ye don' look like any elfie out o' Quel'thalas by my reckonin'."

Laronar blinked, as the spell translated a pair of elven words amidst the dwarvish, and he wondered if the Highborne of old had continued to survive to the present era. After a few thousand years without sighting them, most Kaldorei assumed their ancient cousins were long gone. "No...I am not from...Quel'thalas...I am Kadorei, of Kalimdor. To the west. I come in peace." He stepped closer to the dwarf then, and the short, stout creature eyed him with suspicion, until he saw what the elf carried.

* * *

The cat-headed pipe made of well used wood was packed with a herb that, unlike the dwarf's was green in color, and had bits of orange mixed within as well. A smirk came across the rough features, and he put down his own pipe. "Now tha's more like it. None o' that hooka' nonsense like the elfies up north." Laronar lit the bowl for him, and the dwarf's smirk only widened as the potent elven stash worked its magic rather quickly on the creature who was not used to the effects. "Kalimdor ye' say...our historians in Ironforge say tha' was the name o' all the world's lands in a time before time. We never 'ad any proof it still existed. Dwarves don' do well with oceans, but p'raps such a journey is possible fer a flier, eh? If an owl can do et, I'd bet a gryphon could too."

Laronar nodded, taking his own toke on the pipe as it was passed back to him. The two sat quietly in the cave, and Laronar assumed that, now that he'd established friendly contact, this dwarf of some repute could keep him from being hammered to death. Despite all the rumors he'd heard growing up in Eldarath, what he knew of their actions during the War of the Ancients directly contradicted the elven slurs. One thing he did not grasp, was why the dwarf before him was calling himself a dwarf. In the past, 'Earthen' had been the correct term. He pondered quietly as he remembered dwarves, while long lived compared to Tauren or Furbolgs, were still very much mortal, or so he'd been taught. Perhaps the elven slur had become a proper name for their race over the long millennia.

Laronar exhaled, before responding. "A gryphon, you call it? Hmm. Yes, I think one of them could make the journey to Kalimdor...but you would need to stop on the isles around the Maelstrom before trying to fly past it. Many...unsavory species live on those isles. Trolls, mostly, but other creatures yet linger. I would not try such a journey alone."

* * *

The two became friends rather quickly as the night wore on. Laronar learned the dwarf's name was Vjaldi, and much like Liu Lang, he was a shaman. They decided it was better, and easier for the rest of the clan, who called themselves Wildhammers, if they did not see the rare variant of elf. Vjaldi claimed tensions were high enough with the High Elves, and the latent racism would likely carry to Laronar, despite very clearly not being of Quel'thalas.

Laronar returned for the next several nights, adventuring with the dwarf as the effects of the herb led him to do stupid, and potentially life-ending things for amusement. Laronar, for his part, kept him alive, and brought him back to his cave before the sun rose. After the seventh day of such escapades, he was ready to move on, and explore the rest of the easternmost continent.

Vjaldi bid him a fond farewell, after the druid shared with him enough seeds to grow his own stash of the potent herb, and the two agreed that in time, they would meet again. The gryphons of the area he had learned was called the Hinterlands, let him leave unchallenged, and he headed north, curious about the elves and 'humans' the dwarf had mentioned resided there.

* * *

What he found of humanity was not all that impressive. They were tiny, pale, furless, and had a tendency to ruin natural settings in the name of expanding their giant stone cities. Those, were where he saw humanity's darker nature. Thieves bounded past his rooftop hiding places, thugs beat each other in the spaces between their buildings, and every human he saw at their trading market seemed far too obsessed with gold. More than once it had led to outright murder. Those too poor to afford food were mutilated and beaten, while those with more than enough gold to share bought more food than they could ever possibly consume by themselves. Most of it, he saw, ended up in the city's trash when the lavish feasts were finished. He spent roughly a week flying from Arathor to Lordaeron, and then leaving, somewhat disappointed. He'd expected more of the races of this continent, but it seemed humans, dwarves, and banished elves were all it had to offer.

When he came upon the northernmost tip of the world's eastern landmass, his sharp eyes saw nothing resembling an elven city. It took him most of a day before he realized that their lands were covered in magic, and indeed once he broke through that initial illusion, he found that the Highborne had literally drenched their land with mana. It permeated everything, and he flew towards its source, curious as to what his wayward cousins had wrought without the guidance of Malfurion and Tyrande.

He did not fly directly over the font of magic, for he knew it would be well defended. He could sense it well enough from one of the mana-twisted trees upon the isle the Highborne had created it on. Despite being irritated that, somehow, they had managed to recreate the Well of Eternity to a degree, he was forced to admit that he had seen with his own eyes that living in harmony with mana and nature was indeed possible.

* * *

Of the elves themselves, he could understand their tongue, more or less, and learned that with their height and muscles, the wayward Highborne had also lost their near-immortal life spans, now lasting, at most, only a few millennia before perishing to old age. With his curiosity sated, and two weeks spent hiding from the peering eyes of elves and humans, Laronar flew south again, and headed for the only Kaldorei outpost on this continent, and one he had Staghelm to thank for existing.

The Twilight Grove was empty when he landed within it. He had found more humans in the bright woods around the grove, but evidently none had managed to find the secret elven hideaway. He found the portal inactive, and after repairing a few weathered runes upon it and giving it a magical jumpstart, it hummed to life, and he stepped through into the Dreamway.

He was met with the imposing snout of a green wyrm, and bowed, as it sniffed him, and spoke. "Laronar Stormclaw...we had heard that you had perished some time ago...and now here I find you, opening another gate to the Dream, one we had long given up maintaining."

Laronar chuckled. "Well, as you can see good dragon, I'm not quite dead. As for the portal...we should maintain it. The Highborne we exiled some millennia past still persist, or rather, their descendants do. They've made another font of magic similar to the Well of Eternity. It is at the heart of their lands, but they seem to be living in harmony with mana, and nature...we should keep an eye upon it. It will draw demons to it like feces draws flies."

* * *

The dragon, a female he realized, nodded once. "I will inform Stormrage, and set a guard. Welcome home, Stormclaw." The ephemeral dragon lifted off, and Laronar headed for the portal to the Dreamgrove. He flew towards Ashamane's fall then, to confer with his patron. He found a statue of her erected in the center of the area the Ashen had made 'holy', and knelt before it as he reached out to her.

 _What brings you back here, my wandering druid?_ The ghostly panther's voice echoed in his skull, but she did not physically manifest.

"I have a...gap...in my memory. Six hundred years is a long time. I'd like to remember what we did during that time." He felt the panther's worry flood him as he spoke.

 _You recall nothing? At all? That is...worrying. You are correct, six centuries is a long time to lose, but there are things we learned during that time that you must remember. Hmm…_ The pause on her end drew longer, and longer. Eventually, he'd been sitting for several hours, but she did again reach out to him. _There is one who has agreed to help recover what you have forgotten...his power is more suited to this than my own...and...you and he will get along, I think. Travel southward via the Dream, until you reach the land of your friend Liu. Once there, you will understand what you need to do._

Laronar thanked his patron again, and almost left just as quickly, that is, until a pair of druids in their cat forms stopped him in the middle of the Dreamgrove. They shifted to their elven forms, revealing them to be a pair of sisters, rather lovely, with hair of varying shades of green. The younger spoke first. "Shan'do Stormclaw...we feared you dead. You disappeared for so long, and without a word...but Shan'do Moonclaw was convinced you were still alive."

* * *

Laronar stifled a yawn, and nodded. His arms crossed as he replied, and he did not quite realize the show he was putting on just by moving. His upper torso had become, in a word, glorious. A prime example of how well-muscled a Kaldorei male could become. Unfortunately, he was not yet aware of its potency, and the subtleties of romance he had once known rather well had faded with over a thousand years of inaction. "Well, here I am. Alive. I've forgotten the past six centuries...but Ashamane has bid me to traverse the Dream in an effort to regain my memory. Did you two need something?"

The eldest spoke now. "I am Naria, and this is Saria. Ashamane bid us to follow you...a prospect I had not expected to look forward to, until now."

It took Laronar a full minute to realize that, yes, that _was_ seduction in the elder sister's voice, or at least, a tone that suggested it. One lengthy green eyebrow raised up rather high, but Laronar focused on the task at hand. "I see. Well, sisters, I welcome the company. Did Ashamane mention what you are to accomplish by joining me?"

The younger sister spoke again. "We are to learn from you, one of the oldest Feral Druids still living. Master Moonclaw said we were the most adept he had, but he could not bestow on us the title of Sharpclaw...he said that was _your_ responsibility."

Laronar chuckled, and headed for the portal to the Dream. He'd stocked up on food as he'd passed through the Dreamgrove, and assumed the women had prepared as well. If Thaon said they were competent, he would trust his contemporary's evaluation of them. "So you wish to be Sharpclaws...I haven't trained a Sharpclaw since before the War of the Shifting Sands...very well. We will travel as you learn, and make use of the lengthy journey."

* * *

The sisters fell into step beside him as he entered the portal. Naria, the eldest spoke again. "Where are we traveling to, exactly?"

"To a land called Pandaria...it is evidently hidden on the waking plane, but if we reach it via the Dream, we should be able to contact the Ancients who reside there. One of them, apparently, will help me regain my memory." Laronar glanced at the pair as they stepped through the portal. The elder sister was walking rather close, not that he minded, while the younger seemed immune to whatever charm he'd managed to work on her sister.

Once in the Dream, determining direction was difficult for the elves, and they relied on their patron to steer them in the right direction, at least. A vast expanse of green and various plants and spirits lay between them and their destination. The further they went from the green flight's influence, the more wild the Dream would become. Laronar estimated a length of several weeks for their trek, if they were walking, which would give them time to practice as well.

That first day they stopped after sixteen hours of walking in relative silence, and the elder druid put them through their paces, evaluating what they already knew, and offering advice for where they were lacking. When they finally fell asleep, he looked around the dreamscape, and toked on his pipe. At that moment, he was rather glad he'd chosen nature's path as his own.


	19. Trial of the Tiger

**Trial of the Tiger**

* * *

 **Somewhere within the Emerald Dream**

* * *

Laronar had long since stopped keeping track of time within the Dream. Mostly because any attempt to do so, was pointless. One could feel it pass, if one entered as a spirit, but when one walked the dreamscape with their physical body, their sense of direction and time eventually became muddled to the point of total uselessness. The three elves were lucky though, for they had a guide. Whenever they ventured off course, the ashen furred panther, their patron Wild God, would guide them back to the right direction. South. Always south.

Traveling with a pair of sisters had gone about how Laronar expected it to. Naria had...warmed to him rather quickly, which made Saria irritated with both of them, and her irritation was only compounded by their patron when, upon being told of the elder druid's sexcapades into the dream foliage, she had shrugged, licked a paw, and claimed to have expected that such things would happen. That her 'chosen' as she'd called Laronar, had a persuasive scent that females who followed her sometimes had trouble ignoring. Others, for whatever mystifying reason, seemed entirely immune to the pheromones his changed body gave off.

For their part, the two had agreed that casual was the best way to keep things, though as the 9500 year old druid reawakened muscles he hadn't used in quite a few centuries, he found _not_ falling for the Ashen female was becoming more and more difficult, when there was little else to do while they rested. Their journey was supposed to take several years, according to their guide, as they were going on foot. The use of her form sped things along, but with nothing to hunt, that wouldn't last forever.

* * *

What the dreamscape offered in the way of food was, for druids like them, less than filling. The Ashen were one of the few, if not the only, branch of the circle that actively hunted big game, seeing the act as crucial for nature, provided it was done correctly. Thaon had told him once that he'd taken a tip from the Dryads, and used every part of the kill. Evidently, he'd taught their students to do the same, but in the Dream, hunting was not really an option. The animals were long deceased and none of the three wished to anger them, and disturb their rest. Berries, which varied between poisonous and delicious, always left them craving something more for their stomachs to digest.

They continued on though, for each desired to see their destination. Laronar had, in retrospect, realized that his friend Liu was likely long gone by now, along with many of the other shorter lived races he had, from his perspective, recently befriended. Only Bjaldi would still be alive, but Laronar had no idea how long had passed in the waking world while they traveled. Dwarves, for all their foul humor, love of alcohol, and no small amount of racism, tended to live for a few hundred centuries at least, and in Bjaldi, Laronar had sensed a connection to the world. He would live longer, as was common for those who tied themselves to natural magic, but eventually, the cycle would claim him, too.

As the three druids continued to travel, spar, and learn, eventually they stumbled upon something best left alone. The presence of many, many Wild Gods. In Laronar's experience, only Hyjal had felt so crowded, by comparison. Some of the Ancient minds were larger than the others, and yet in the weaker presences, he felt a strong instinct to not underestimate them. Deciding that curiosity was harmless, while their physical forms rested in the Dream, the druids settled into a meditative triangle, and sent their spirits to the waking world, traversing the realms with ease, as they had been taught.

* * *

When Laronar's vision straightened, and revealed the waking world, his companions were not beside him, and the hairs on his neck were rising, slowly. He turned around, and looked upwards as a pinch of salt and soot drifted over his dream form. He spied what was making his instincts, even in an incorporeal form, rise to action. It was a Zandalari troll, one beefy arm dangling, while the other and his feet gripped the branches of one of Zandalar's massive trees. "Hello 'dere, elf mon...you be walkin' in places you aint welcome."

He leapt down from the tree, and approached Laronar, who was staring at the troll with increasing disbelief. In this form, he could sense much of a person's mind, and the power the troll was radiating was _very_ similar in nature to his own. He was as equally muscled, had dark blue skin, and long tusks bearing many carvings. "Mm...because you be one of Cenarius', I won't be sendin' ya to Bwonsamdi today. But not all my bruddas and sistas be so kind." He chuckled, and looked the elf over. "Now I see ya...I be thinkin' we aint so different, ya?"

Laronar nodded. His voice came out distorted but intelligible as he replied, "You are a druid, then? Interesting. I did not think the trolls had such magic...the tribes in Feralas and Tanaris do not."

* * *

The troll laughed again, and then crossed his bulky arms as he finished. "I be no jungle troll, or sand-dwellin' savage, mon. I am _Zandalari_. We have worshiped de Loa longer den anyone."

Laronar smirked. "That's a common claim. As far as I know, the Tauren were first, by all accounts, though early Kaldorei had ties to nature as well. Legend suggests that those ties were much...closer, than the ones a druid makes." The troll arched a brow, and Laronar elaborated. "They say those who embraced nature in those ancient days became living trees, tenders of the forest directly under Cenarius. Perhaps it was before the Well changed us. Nobody was certain, even when we had records on such ancient events."

"Dat is de way it has always been wit history. But I 'ave little time fo' such tings. It does not matta who came first. Ya'd make a worthy enemy. Dat's what mattas. You best be goin' back ta da Dream, elfy. Before one of de Loa gets your scent." The troll actually made a waving motion, and Laronar suddenly got the impression he hadn't just been hanging around here for fun. He looked around, and his eyes widened as he sensed a familiar presence he'd felt only once before, and in the heat of war at that.

"I...spoke with one of your Loa, once. I think. Ashamane called him the Lord of the Hunt. He helped our people by sending saurians to aid us against the bugs of Silithus."

* * *

"Aye. Ya mean Gonk...yes...he been keepin' an eye on de remnants of de Aqir for many an age, all across de world." The troll nodded, and then the hairless brow arched again as he saw Laronar's confusion.

"What...is an Aqir?" The incorporeal druid asked, genuinely curious now. As far as he knew, elves and trolls had never spoken this long without devolving into combat, but here at least, was a fellow guardian of nature. Like Laronar, he seemed not inclined to start a fight, mostly because it was impossible to do so.

The troll laughed. "Aye, de histories said it was before ya people rose...a great war, de greatest de Trolls ever fought, a uniting of all de tribes, all de Loa, against a t'reat as old as de world. Intelligent bugs, mon. Dey t'reatened to swarm de world at one time, but now, dey are all but gone. We knew of de hive in Pandaria, but...Silithus ya called it? Neva' 'eard of it."

* * *

Laronar then began recounting the elve's conflict with the Qiraji, and the aid they'd gotten as they did. The troll seemed more impressed that he'd run with dragons and Loa, than anything the elves had done militarily, though even Laronar had to admit that particular conflict had seen them out-maneuvered multiple times.

The troll's previous insistence on his leaving earlier, had all but vanished after he mentioned Gonk, and though he sensed the Loa was close, he didn't seem inclined to reach out. Laronar too hesitated, for he had nothing to ask of the Lord of the Hunt, and didn't really want to bargain, as the trolls did. He was either occupied, or sleeping, and Laronar knew better than to poke a sleeping Ancient.

It was not long after his recounting, and the troll's sharing of a few war stories on the island, that he returned to the Dream, only to find the sisters still meditating. Suddenly finding himself with free time, he did as he always did when he had a minute alone, and brought out the cat-shaped pipe.

* * *

They had chosen a spot surrounded by trees for a reason, and Laronar sat below one as he began his form of meditation. His body had connected to the life of the Dream flora around him, and he was already levitating slightly in the air, supported by a warm, persistent breeze that wisely stayed away from his pipe.

He lost track of time, but to his slight annoyance, it was Saria who returned first, dashing his hopes of sneaking off into the bushes before they again moved southward. A look of disdain crossed her features as she eyed the druid, and Laronar wondered if she might finally challenge him. He'd been expecting it sooner. He heard her steps as she walked towards him, and he could almost smell the irritation, radiating off of her.

"Where the Fel were you? Do you have any idea what I just experienced?" Laronar opened an eye, and examined the woman's posture. All hostile, hands on hips, nostrils flaring. She wasn't quite angry enough yet...but he knew how to push buttons.

* * *

"Let me guess...you ran afoul of one of the Loa." He exhaled a cloud of smoke while he kept his eyes closed. That it flew in her face was _entirely_ coincidental. "I came out near Gonk, but he was sleeping. Did you forget the first lesson of talking to Ancients, Saria?"

He opened his eyes in time to see her nails coming towards his face, but there was no intent to actually strike. He remained still, and her frustration only grew, as her feint failed and she pulled her hand back, curling it into a fist. "That's not...I didn't...you would've woken them too, okay? It was a tiger Ancient. I couldn't pass up the chance to learn something you don't already know."

Laronar chuckled. "I know not to wake a sleeping Ancient, especially a tiger. The few I have spoken with favor the trolls, though they didn't show me outright hostility when we spoke. This is Zandalar though, which means it was...Kimbul? Mm. I think that's the name. Not the most friendly, towards our kind."

* * *

"No, really?" The younger of the sisters huffed, and gave the elven equivalent of an eyeroll. It was about that point she finally noticed, the druid was floating. She shook her head, and looked back to her sister. "You should check on her."

The floating druid, sitting cross-legged upon the persistent breeze that kept him aloft, raised one lengthy green eyebrow. "Me? Why not yourself?"

She fixed him with a glare from her amber eyes, which were not so uncommon in Val'sharah. "Escaping Kimbul took much of my energy. And you aren't busy."

Laronar stared her down as he floated past her, and towards her sister, where she still remained cross-legged, and slightly droopy. The body was asleep, but the mind was elsewhere. He frowned as he watched her for a moment. The sleep seemed uneasy.

* * *

He dropped to the ground after packing the pipe away, and once more traversed the boundaries between the Dream and reality. The hair on his neck rose, as his perspective shifted, and he suddenly felt himself under the eyes of a predator. For some reason, it felt akin to the few but memorable times he had managed to irritate his patron.

Near this unsettling presence, he sensed Naria, and as he took in the sight of her, he quickly glanced around. Whatever was making his instincts demanding he fight or flee, was not visible. All he saw was what appeared to be stone walls, deep under the earth. An old temple, in an old swamp, buried very deep, but still reachable, to those Zandalari who sought her power.

 _Another of my sister's...my my...you are no novice...you must be one of the claws. Moon or Storm?_

As the booming, feminine voice inadvertently made clear the balance of power, and even fighting style, between Thaon and himself, Laronar smirked. "Storm. You must be Bethekk...tell me, panther goddess...why is your temple so low in Zandalar's crust?"

* * *

He couldn't help but wilt as the furious roar bore down on him. _As if you do not know, Kaldorei! It was your arrogant race that Shattered the World!_

That, the ancient druid rose to. He stared into the darkness, focusing, and he felt Ashamane guide him, as she always had. The smirk widened, as his eyes focused on the hidden panther Loa, who snarled in irritation, and melted from the shadows. "Believe me, we did not...desire that. Those who summoned the demons did so before anyone even knew what was coming...and banishing them exacted a heavy price. Had my people not fought them, there would be no world left at all."

The panther growled low, as she took in the druid's words. Her eyes narrowed as he spoke again. "Perhaps I can help atone for my people's crime against you, and your temple. I am here, and in this form, I can influence the earth. Swamps are easy. Let me return your temple to the surface. It will need cleaning...but I can't really help with that." He waved a ghostly hand for emphasis.

The panther looked around, as she considered his offer. _And in return?_

"You let me and my fellow Ashen leave, in peace."

* * *

 _I will...consider your request. Raise my temple to the surface, first. Then we shall see if it is worth giving you my newest plaything._

It was Laronar's turn to narrow his eyes, and as he eyed Naria closer, he noticed she was asleep even here, floating beside the ghostly form of Bethekk. Even drawn from the shadows, she was hard to see. He scanned the surrounding area, as well as the area above, with his senses.

He drifted towards the altar in the subterranean chamber, and then raised both hands. Both Bethekk and Naria were before him, but he put them from his mind for the moment, as he reached out to the earth. Even the land was stubbornly against him in this place, but after gentle coaxing, and explaining that it was a temple to a Loa he was helping, the reluctant stones, mud, and other swamp detritus parted for him, as the earth below the temple surged upwards.

Having no physical presence there, he didn't not feel it quake or tremor as the ancient stone building, a tiered pyramidal design, rose through the relatively soft swamp, and into the foul air of Nazmir once more.

* * *

He was sweating, that much he could feel, but once he was done, he looked at the panther expectantly. Rising mud had filled much of the chamber, but it was now solidly perched atop earth that, unless meddled with, would not sink again any time soon.

 _Not bad at all...Stormclaw. I can see why Ashamane favors you. Your bond with nature is strong. Take your lover, and depart these lands. In peace._

The ghostly panther, who reminded him less and less of his patron the longer he spent in her presence, smirked at him as she spoke the last few words. His dream form gathered up Naria's, and in short order, he dragged her back to the Dream, where she woke slowly, and then returned to her body.

Laronar paused for a moment in the Dream, half expecting one of the native Loa to appear and try for their physical forms, but none did. They seemed more preoccupied with their Zandalari worshipers, and though he did not know it, his act of helping the sunken temple to the panther goddess had earned quite a bit of good will among Zandalar's Ancients. At the very least, they would not attack him outright should he ever pass by again. It would need to be cleaned, but now at least, Bethekk could find a priest and guide them to her.

* * *

Saria was eager to move on once they returned, but before they could, Ashamane appeared before them, and directed Naria and Laronar away from the impatient younger sibling. Once they had moved far enough to be out of earshot, she spoke, her concerned amber eyes focused upon Naria.

 _You are perhaps the first of your kind to run afoul of my sister, and not be slowly torn to shreds, dreamform or no._

"Laronar did all the work...I didn't think to try raising the temple. I was too shocked from realizing you have a sister! And one that favors the Zandalari no less." Laronar smirked as Naria spoke, and Ashamane had a similar expression.

 _The trolls have appealed to many Ancients over the millennia, and my fellow Wild Gods have grown arrogant and greedy upon their singular worship. There are many spirits, and bears, cats, and birds are no strangers to the Zandalari. Though they prefer their saurians above all._

"I prefer our methods." Laronar said, stepping forward slightly. "No bargains, no blood pacts, no dark sacrifices...just a treasured bond, and power, shared in the defense of Nordrassil."

* * *

Ashamane chuckled at his words, and even that sounded different from Bethekk's. He began to wonder if they were sisters in species only, for the two seemed quite different. _You should be glad we do not limit you as the Zandalari Ancients do. But we agreed, when Nordrassil rose atop Hyjal, that singular worship would ultimately make you weaker defenders of nature. Should you ever test yourselves against the Zandalari, we shall see whose method proves stronger._

"What of you, Archdruid? Did you encounter a Loa as well?" Naria shifted her focus to him, something Laronar did not mind in the slightest.

He shook his head. "I came near the den of Gonk...but the Lord of the Hunt was sleeping, or otherwise preoccupied. So I let him be. I didn't require a bargain with him, and poking a sleeping Ancient is a very bad idea. I did speak to a Zandalari though. A druid, like us."

The two females seemed interested in that, and he recounted what he and the troll, who hadn't given his name, had spoken of. Ashamane faded into incorporeal spirit essence after he finished, and gave him directions once more towards their destination. Suddenly alone, and rather far from Saria, the two Kaldorei locked eyes, and decided the younger sister could wait a few more minutes.

* * *

A few minutes ultimately became several hours, and by the time they returned, Saria was in a particularly foul mood. They departed all the same, claiming, despite their slightly tousled hair, that Ashamane had held them up. Saria didn't seem to buy that, though neither of the two older druids seemed to care, as they once more began heading south. Zandalar was close to Pandaria, closer than Val'sharah at any rate, which meant their journey would soon be at an end.

Laronar did not know how much time passed between their foray into Zandalar, and arriving in Pandaria, but he did know they were rather close once the Dream itself became laden with a heavy mist. As always, Ashamane guided them, and the druids stayed together in the thick mist until it finally parted, and they were granted a view of Azeroth's southernmost continent, as it had been at the dawn of the world.

Ashamane directed their gaze, and her motherly tones filled their heads all at once as she guided their eyes towards the tallest peaks on the western side of Pandaria. _That, is where you will find the one each of you seeks. They will send you back to the Dreamway when your training is complete. From here on, I must leave you. Stretching myself so far is...taxing, and the mist is repelling me. Good luck, my druids._

* * *

They had decided not to fly thus far on their trip, as doing so would potentially draw flying predator spirits, like Chimeras, to test them. Though they had refrained from hunting, many former hunters in life had no qualms about consuming other spirits in death.

As they took their flight forms, the pair of storm crows led by a black feathered owl began ascending towards the thunderous peaks that, the closer they came, seemed to blend with the real world. It took Laronar quite a while to realize there were Ancients here, as well...and easily on par with Goldrinn in strength. One presence in particular had a familiar essence, and he was not surprised that it was that presence Ashamane had pointed them towards.

He sensed the fear of the crows, as their nature attracted the lightning of the area's skies, but Laronar flew on, unfazed, even when one such bolt aimed for him, as well. He let his form's instinct guide his dodge, and continued on towards the temple that had melted out of the mist and cloud of the upper atmosphere.

* * *

The green tint around them faded, as a gong sounded, and the trio of birds shared a look. Being what they were, they knew when their bodies were, and were not, within the Emerald Dream. Whatever power they had been seeking had just transferred them through realities with naught but sound. A voice echoed in all three of their heads, as they flew over the courtyards before the main temple building.

 _Come._

The black and white figures below seemed obese, and looked unthreatening, but Laronar had seen just how good Pandaren were at combat. He and Liu had sparred several times as they'd roamed Feralas, and the adventurous bear had moved with surprising swiftness. The Pandaren below, moved completely differently, and in a series of attack poses that, being a war veteran, he recognized as practice drills. Whatever they were practicing was likely considered an art form, and again Liu's knowledge helped. He had spoken briefly and vaguely of what had freed his people from the rule of whatever a Mogu was.

* * *

Liu had also spoken of the beings who helped them learn this 'martial art'. It was this knowledge that had made him the speaker for their trio, as advised by their patron. As the birds flew into the building, they paused at the entrance to the massive chamber, and as they retook their elven forms, they moved to the center of the chamber and bowed in the elven style.

Several of the black and white forms thinking themselves hidden in the shadows murmured as they did, and only Laronar rose as the white tiger did, tracing a familiar glyphic symbol in the air. With the power the Ancient before him was giving off, he did not require components. "Hail, Great Tiger of the August Celestials. We three come from Ashamane, seeking your wisdom."

 _Ahh yes...Stormclaw. She's spoken highly of you...and your ancestors were not unknown to me. They too, once stood before me, as you do...but you are far more...connected to the world, than they were. It seems the Kaldorei have come far, since breaking the world._

* * *

Laronar chuckled. "Again with this...without us, we would not _have_ a world to argue upon. No civilization is immune to corruption. Ours just happened to border the greatest source of mana ever discovered. There is no timeline where our civilization's fall was going to be a quiet decay. We were playing with forces we did not fully understand. The results of testing the boundaries of the arcane have always been...explosive. It's a large part of why we mostly stopped using it, but we have found over these long millennia that when balanced with natural power, these spells can be truly...impressive, and focused, on small areas."

The white tiger seemed to huff, not unlike how Ashamane did when he said something that made her chuckle. _I know well the role your people played. You are correct. My own kind intervened far too late in the conflict, and there were not so many demons, this far south. But that is not what is important. Did you fight, in that conflict?_

Laronar grimaced. "As much as a juvenile elf on his own could. It helped that I had a ferocious thousand pound cat by my side, but even he wasn't fully grown. I've fought in every conflict since, leaving a...larger impact."

 _I see. We have heard of your people's trials over the millennia. Satyrs. Silithid. Centaurs. I am curious, Children of the Stars. Why do you fight?_

* * *

The sisters, now addressed, rose and stepped up beside Laronar. He answered first, as he'd figured this answer out the deeper he'd delved into the Dream. "To defend the world...as the Dragon Aspects charged us to. As long as Azeroth lives, we have hope against the forces the all consuming flame."

The White Tiger nodded. _You speak of the Legion. But there are darker forces that have darker fates for the planet…_ The tiger's blue eyes flared and sparked with electricity. _The Seven Breaths of Y'Shaarj are one such threat, and they are not the greatest. We shall speak of these matters more, you who would defend the world._ He turned his eyes to the other two expectantly.

Naria spoke first, when Saria did not. "To protect Nordrassil. The World Tree is what has been healing the land for the past nine millennia...without it, I expect our world would not have survived being sundered." When the tiger seemed to wait for more, she continued after a brief pause. "Naturally...that includes those who live in and around Hyjal as well. We are tied to the World Tree, as a species. To protect it, is to protect every Kaldorei." She smirked towards Laronar. "And the world, I suppose."

* * *

Saria sighed, and the sparking blue eyes turned towards her. _And from the youngest?_

Saria bristled at the Ancient's words, but kept herself from disrespecting him. "You asked why we fight...most would say they fight for the planet, but when it comes down to a choice between nature and a loved one, I think most of our people would choose their family first. It's true that by protecting one, we protect the other but...some choices are not so easy." She glanced at her companions. "If it came down to the world, or each other, could you really choose the world?"

The two older elves shared a look, and their features saddened, but they both nodded at her. Laronar spoke again. "We must. It is our charge as druids, and the price for the power we wield. But take heart...rarely does such a situation occur, and our allies," He gestured at Xuen, "Would not willingly put us in such circumstances without dire need."

* * *

Xuen nodded at his words, and then his eyes moved up above them, to seemingly empty air. _What do you think, Yu'lon?_

 _I will take the youngest._ The feminine voice echoed from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, as a green mist appeared in Xuen's sight line, and coalesced into a massive jade dragon, though she looked like no dragon Laronar had ever seen. Every Padaren lurking in the temple knelt at once, in the presence of two August Celestials. _There is much I can teach her of the ways of healing. The other two already possess similar knowledge, and are better refined by you, Xuen._

 _I understand. Very well. Take the youngest, and send her home when she is ready._ The eyes fell back on Laronar and Naria. _I will handle these two._

Saria gave her sister a look, and then after Naria nodded, she followed the jade serpent out of the temple, and into the air again, as they headed in a south easterly direction.

* * *

 _Now...why have you sought me out, followers of Ashamane?_ The white tiger returned to a lying position, head resting upon his paws as he examined the elves before him with what seemed like interest.

Laronar spoke first, after glancing at Naria. "I lost much of my memory, when I offered my body as Ashamane's avatar for a few centuries. In fact...I don't recall any of it. I'd like to, and she suggested you could help."

The tiger regarded the elf with slightly more respect, as he knew the Zandalari could do something similar, and take on their patron's aspects. This, sounded different. His spirit had been so in sync with the ashen panther's that she'd been able to possess him, and manifest on the prime plane once more. That only left one question.

 _Why? Explain to me the events that led to this...possession by a Wild God. Mortal bodies usually cannot handle such stress.  
_

* * *

The druid allowed himself a small smirk, and shrugged. "The bronze dragons did...something to me, and a few others, when we defended their caverns beside them, in the war of Shifting Sands. My body doesn't decay, and while that's not unusual for our kind now, it barely changes at all. It remains as strong as it was during that war, and only gets stronger...come to think, I _was_ holding her Fangs in that conflict...maybe that's why…" He thought for a moment, and then shrugged once more. "As for what led to the need for such an offering...I found myself in a confrontation with one of my contemporaries...Ashamane urged me to shift forms as he made an attack that likely would have snapped my neck, had it stayed elven. The blow did offset me though, and with the sudden shift, my...rage managed to burn out of my control. Made me into something resembling a cat, and an elf. Ashamane managed to fix me, but the price was a few centuries of letting her roam Azeroth in my shell. It seemed a fair trade to me, but from my perspective I went to sleep letting her in, and the next thing I knew, I was six hundred years out of date, in a strange land."

The white and blue tiger regarded him as he listened with the patience of a hunter. _I see. We are no strangers to anger and rage in this land. In Pandaria, our finest warriors purge such emotions. Unfocused rage makes you weak, but once purged of it, you will become strong. I can teach you this, if you use what you learn to defend the world, as you have so far._

Laronar bowed again, fist to palm in the elven style. "I would be honored, White Tiger."

* * *

Xuen's eyes shifted to Naria then, who was processing the story as well. She had heard Fandral Staghelm had dueled with another Archdruid within Nighthaven, sending him into the wilds when Remulos broke it up, but it seemed there was more to the story. They only got so much news, in Val'sharah. She'd never considered that it might be fake, or untrue, that members of the Circle would lie and willingly subvert the truth to sway opinions to Fandral's side...and yet, that's exactly what had happened. Even in Val'sharah, the Archdruid was held in high esteem. She made a mental note to visit the Moonglade to see for herself how changed it had become, at some point.

 _And what of you? Why have you sought me?_

Naria smirked. "I wish to become a better warrior...to be a Sharpclaw. Ashamane suggested I train with Laronar, and you. He has shown me...much. I am ready to learn more, White Tiger." She bowed as well, and Xuen regarded both of them again, before speaking.

 _Very well. My finest student will show you the secrets of our fighting technique, and once you know them, we will incorporate them into your Nightsaber forms. Find Shin-Zu in one of the courtyards below. He will show you what you need to know. Return to me, when you have mastered the basics._ As the tiger watched them go, he huffed to himself, wondering how the immortal Night Elves would be taken by his finest pupil. He was of the opinion that the Pandaren were the strongest species around, and that mastering one of the fighting styles of the August Celestials made one nearly unbeatable. It wasn't entirely inaccurate, but seeing immortal masters of the dexterous arts in action would be a good sobering reminder for the Pandaren, that many races were naturally faster, and he needed to train all the harder to hope to match them.

* * *

The two elves bowed again, and departed. Asking around, they soon found Shin-Zu leading an entire group of Pandaren in a series of martial strikes focused on repetition, and the perfection it brought. The panda leading them raised a paw, and the students all stopped, at once, and gawked at the unfamiliar strangers in their midst. "Om nom, nom nom nom om. Om nom om nom?"

Laronar held up a finger in the universal sign for 'wait' as Naria looked at him with mild amusement and confusion. He traced a J shaped symbol in the air, and then a pinch of soot and salt covered the pair of elves. "Now, we should sound like we're speaking om nom, to them."

Naria found that amusing, and giggled as Laronar strode forward a few paces among the ordered lines of students, and bowed. "Master Shin-Zu. The White Tiger bid me and my fellow Night Elf here to seek you out. We come from Val'sharah, and we wish to learn the White Tiger's style of combat. He said that you should be the one to teach us."

* * *

The elder Pandaren leapt with seemingly little effort, flying through the air with an impressive flip, and landing just before them. His bulk was deceptive, it seemed, and hid mostly muscle. His deep baritone and heavily accented elven filled their ears as he looked them over. "Night Elves...interesting. I have never trained an elf before. Come. We shall see what you already know, and go from there." He gave a nod to another Pandaren by the dais upon which he'd been leading the exercises, and said Padnaren stepped up, continuing the class as his master guided the pair of elves to a courtyard that currently was not in use, and had training equipment all over it.

He quickly determined that neither of them had any real experience with martial arts, and though the training was trying on their nerves, their teacher quickly showed them what they wanted to learn. The fast movements, the explosive strikes, the devastating power of a blow with the force of their entire body behind it, was exactly what they had been looking to master. Their bite attacks, especially as Nightsabers, were powerful already, but Ashamane had told, and shown, that they could be even stronger. She wished for all who followed her to eventually master this, but for that to happen, someone needed to perfect it. Saria had a different mission, and had found the 'correct master' as Ashamane had called her.

As the master of the White Tiger Style taught the elves, he remarked, and lamented, at how quickly they absorbed his knowledge. It was, from a Pandaren's perspective, absurdly fast. They mastered each movement with unnatural speed, and their natural dexterity made up for their errors as they sparred, and practiced new sets. Neither of his new students had tired by the time the sun had risen, and thus, he kept training them. They did pause when the smell of his dumplings caused the male's stomach to roar not unlike Xuen.

* * *

By the arrival of the next night, Shin-Zu declared that they had the basics down, and at that point, only repetition could perfect them. He sent them back to Xuen, who lifted his white head as they approached, and bowed.

 _Ashamane said you had promise...but even I am impressed._ The sparking blue eyes focused on the male of the pair. _It is time we drew your rage from you. Take your strongest form._

The druid paused, as he debated between the Wolf and the Nightsaber. He asked for her guidance, as he pondered, and she simply repeated Xuen's words, with what seemed like a sigh. Given Goldrinn's pride at that comment, Laronar felt that even the Ancients knew who was the stronger. Ashamane had other strengths, and he would always prefer his cat form, but the tiger had asked for his strongest, and the wolf of Hyjal was eager to test one of his kind who thought rage a hindrance. It was an _old_ argument, between them. Goldrinn intended to let the druid use as much of his power as he wished, to prove his point to the old tiger.

Thankfully, Xuen knew the source of the druid's pause, as Goldrinn's blessing was obvious upon his leather kilt, and was thus not surprised when he shifted before him, into a massive, black furred, amber eyed wolf. The druid had impressive control of it's rage, but Xuen saw hesitation, as the wolf god's primal fury manifested in Pandaria.

* * *

From the massive black wolf's body came a creature of pure shadow, rage, and anger. It resembled a Worgen, and its eyes burned red as it focused on Laronar, who was rapidly wondering if he'd bitten off more than he could chew. He felt Goldrinn's rage surge, and he lashed out at the creature, but it dodged him, easily, and Xuen's voice echoed around him, as he noticed Naria seemed to have vanished. He was alone in the chamber, facing down the shadowy being with scythes for arms.

 _This, is a Sha of Anger, a manifested breath of the Old God, Y'shaarj. Conquer your anger, your rage made manifest, and you will become stronger. You must not let it overpower you, and weaken your strikes._

Goldrinn seemed to ignore the advice, and Laronar soon realized he was not as in control as he assumed. He lunged at the being, missing, but dodging when it retaliated. Back and forth they went, the slashing scythes coming ever closer. Then, something changed in the way the creature fought. He let the wolf's instinct for survival completely take over the dodging required for survival, as he focused his power. Dark gray bark sprouted from the fur, surrounding the wolf, and not slowing it. Then, came the thorns.

* * *

The Sha, as Xuen had named it, found itself damaged, rather badly, when it tried to slice into the wolf, and as it went on the defensive, more and more of its shadowy essence was ripped from it with the savage fangs and claws Laronar was using to great effect. Yet it did not die. Xuen's eyes narrowed. The druid, skilled as he was and empowered by Goldrinn, should have killed the creature seven times over by now, and yet, the manifestation was not dying.

Eventually, the thorn covered wolf began to slow, and as it did, a scythe knocked it away, even as it was impaled by the thorns. It seemed not to care, as it grew _bigger._ It fed upon the rage of not just the druid, but also of the Wild God currently aiding him. The powers at work in Pandaria could not pass up the chance to corrupt Goldrinn, and have yet another agent close to the World Tree. The Wolf God would ensure their eventual hour of victory.

Shadow radiated from the being, and Xuen snarled. _You DARE to infest My domain? Before my very eyes!?_ The white and blue tiger began sparking. Evidently, the remnants of Y'shaarj needed a reminder as to who now ruled in Pandaria. Or at least, this part of it.

* * *

As Xuen grew in size to match the threat, Laronar and Goldrinn remained on the defensive, and each scythe blow that landed on them tore away more and more of the bark skin defense. Finally, Laronar reached out to the wolf Ancient from within, where he'd essentially taken a back seat. "We need to change our strategy."

He felt the wolf god snarl, and his irritation grew. " _Listen_ to me, Goldrinn! We need to change strategies, or we're going to fall. And you will fall with me. Whatever this thing is, it's tethered itself to you, now. Your rage, your savage nature."

Finally, the white wolf humored him with an answer. _Then what do we do, Kaldorei?_

Laronar grinned within the wolf form, and after he explained what he'd learned from the tiger, the important aspects of the style Goldrinn would understand, and the harnessing of one's inner energy, or Chi, the wolf smirked as well. Xuen, who had been about to step in, paused as he saw a shift in the fighting style of the druid.

* * *

Size didn't seem to matter to the pair, as they began zipping around his temple leaping with impressive speed, from pillar to pillar and soon, they were little more than a very sharp, very thorny black blur racing through the air. Now all they had to do was hit. And then, they did. Claws and fangs tore through shadow as the bark covered wolf leapt through it, landed on another pillar, turned, and leapt again. More shadow was torn away, and a scythe arm slashed at the wolf, but he was already gone, landing, turning, and launching again.

Seeing this, Xuen changed tactics, and instead let the druid draw from his power as well. Blue lightning sparked over the shifted wolf, and each time they struck, it jolted into the Sha, making it smaller, and weakening it. Finally, the druid focused their unified spirit, as best he knew how after a single lesson, and the final bite made the Sha dissipate entirely.

The enlarged form of the white tiger look down at the wolf, and although Goldrinn assumed it was with smugness, Laronar calmed his anger. It was not smug superiority, but pride in the tiger's eye. The same pride he had for all who managed to take the first all-important step on the path to learning his style of fighting.

* * *

The wolf gave a slow nod to the white tiger, and then, the form faded, leaving the dark purple Kaldorei panting, exhausted, but victorious. He stared up at Xuen then, as Naria melted from the shadows to rejoin them, by his side. She had moved at Xuen's request, more of a warning really, and had regretted not being able to help him as he fought off...whatever a Sha was. She had a feeling she would fight something similar.

Laronar panted heavily, but he managed to speak despite the lack of breath. "That...creature...I've seen others touched by a similar power...the stone guardians of Silithus...they radiated a similar black aura. You seem to know what the source of it is, White Tiger...tell me...what you know. Please."

The August Celestial of Pandaria's northern territory eyed the two elves, and then growled, not with irritation, but as more of a sigh. Enlightening them to the real enemy of the world, the oldest enemy, the one that was unified in its evil and its plotting, would take time.

 _Very well._


End file.
